


keep me like a secret

by parcequelle



Category: Holby City
Genre: Episode Tag, F/F, First Time, Flirting, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-01 18:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8633056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: Picks up from where 'The Kill List' leaves off, behind the blinds, and follows what happens in the lead up to 'Parasite.'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fortunatefolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatefolly/gifts).



> For fortunatefolly, on the occasion of her officially jumping aboard this ship. Just because.

They can’t stop kissing. Jason’s voice fades away completely sometime after Bernie snaps the blinds shut – Serena isn’t even sure she knows what he said, but if it’s important, let the fire alarm go off. They are devouring each other, water for a dying woman, the air they need to breathe, the air they aren’t getting: Serena wrenches herself away from Bernie’s lips only to gasp, to lick at the long, perfect column of her neck before Bernie lets out a sound – was that a _growl_? Whatever it was, it was hot – and crashes their mouths together again. Bernie, sly thing that she is, has manoeuvred them over to the other wall and reaches over to shut the other set of blinds, enveloping them in a cocoon of semi-darkness, and she gasps again as Bernie traps her between the wall and her heated body and runs her hands down Serena’s sides, slides a hand up under Serena’s shirt.

Serena gasps at the relief of the contact, at the feeling of skin against skin, _finally_ , and Bernie is murmuring things into her ear she can barely hear for the rush of her blood. She makes an effort to tune in, starving for Bernie’s words, for her voice, for the impossible quenching of this, the unquenchable thirst. 

“…amazing,” Bernie is panting, breath warm on the shell of Serena’s ear, fingers caressing, maddening, in a way that makes Serena arch into her wantonly in an effort to press their breasts together. “I’m mad,” Bernie hisses, “I’m mad, I must be mad.” Kisses her again, tongue hot and talented and insistent and breathtaking, as breathtaking as she always knew it would be. “To leave you … I’m sorry, so … so sorry. So…” Kisses her way down Serena’s throat, the hand that was toying at the nape of her neck drawing down to brush gently across her breast. It’s so gentle, in fact, that if Serena didn’t know better, couldn’t read Bernie’s energy better, the motion could almost be mistaken for an accident – but she does know better, and she manages to grit out, “It’s all right, Bernie, just touch me,” before she slides her own hands up into Bernie’s hair and tugs off that pesky hair tie, tosses it somewhere across the room.

Bernie pauses where she’s nipping at Serena’s collarbones to laugh, and Serena tugs a little on her hair, grins fiercely. “I missed your hair,” she mutters, before can think twice about it.

“I missed yours,” Bernie says. “I missed your skin.” She pushes the collar of Serena’s blouse aside and kisses her shoulder, sloppy and open-mouthed. “Love this blouse, by the way, you look gorgeous.” She is caressing Serena’s breast in earnest, now, through the blouse, the other hand still dancing across the skin of her back, over and under her bra strap, and the teasing makes Serena want to scream. “I missed your hands,” Bernie says, and turns her head to kiss the one at her neck, the one that Serena is scratching through Bernie’s hair, not gently, just to mess it up. “I missed your eyes. Your … your whole beautiful face.”

She pulls away to look at Serena, eyes glazed over with want in a way that makes Serena’s heart stop; lips swollen and pink, face open and honest and _oh_ , if that isn’t the sexiest part of it all. Bernie being honest. _Oh_. “I missed you so much, Serena. I … I missed your voice and, and working with you, seeing you every day…” she swallows, emotion creeping into her already-unsteady voice. “I missed you so much and I know I, I have no right to say that, I know this is all my fault, but I … please know I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I am. I know I can never say it enough.”

Serena kisses her softly, a thank you, an acceptance, and gives her a smile. All is not forgotten; all is not even forgiven, but there will be time to deal with all of that later – Serena will make time. She owes it to herself, and Bernie owes it to her. But for now, she’s got a locked office, two closed sets of blinds, and a gorgeous woman willing to ravish her in the time it will take her nephew to either call security or pick the lock. As said gorgeous woman dives in to kiss her again, brushing her fingers over the lacy fabric of Serena’s coincidentally-sexy bra, Serena determines to make the most of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of what happened when a oneshot had an identity crisis.

Much as Serena would love it to go on forever, her fingers splayed wide across Bernie’s ribcage and down to her waist, reaching, stretching in a greedy but valiant effort to access as much skin as she can, she is aware of reality’s habit of intervening where it’s least wanted or required. Reality, in this case, takes the form of a bang on the door – maybe two bangs, maybe even three, but who could very well expect her to pay attention when Bernie Wolfe’s oh-so-warm, oh-so-muscular thigh has found its wicked way between her own? – and then Fletch’s voice.

“Bernie,” Serena manages, when Bernie releases her lips only to ghost over her cheekbones and suck Serena’s earlobe into her mouth.

“Hmm?”

“Bernie,” she says again, rakes her nails down Bernie’s back just because she can, because the way Bernie moans, because of _her_ , is the way Serena felt that time she found she’d missed a Christmas present hours after believing she’d opened them all. “ _Bernie_.” She wants to call her Berenice, wants to roll it around her tongue and hear its cadence, but fears suddenly that it might be too soon; thinks maybe (deliciously, deviously) that it might just be more fun to break that one out a bit later. Elsewhere.

Bernie does eventually stop kissing her neck, pulling back with a visible show of restraint that sends Serena’s pulse up into the stratosphere. She presses a hand against the wall beside Serena’s head, steadying herself but still so close, and Serena’s heart flutters, surprise and elation, at the thought that Bernie isn’t putting immediate distance between them. “Yes,” Bernie manages, her voice husky, her smile wry, “yes, sorry.” 

Serena considers, briefly, telling her not to apologise, then figures it can’t hurt Bernie to get used to doing it and leaves it be. She pulls her own hand out from beneath Bernie’s scrub top and relocates it to the necessary task of attempting, mostly in vain, to reorder Bernie’s bird’s nest of a hairstyle. “Someone’s knocking,” she murmurs. 

“Ms Campbell?” Fletch is calling, cautiously. Vaguely terrified. “Ms Wolfe?”

Bernie bites her lip on a laugh, eyes dancing, and calls, in a voice that hints impressively at normalcy, “Yes, Fletch?”

“You have no idea how much I really do not want to interrupt right now, but I thought I should warn ya both that Jason has called security and they’re on their—ahh, scratch that; the bloke’s just got out of the lift.”

“Thank you, Mr Fletcher,” Serena says, crisp and businesslike, not that saving face in front of Fletch is going to be possible ever again, after this. Bernie is grinning at her like she’s reading her mind, and Serena shakes her head. “Don’t you start.”

Bernie pulls out ‘innocent,’ the effect somewhat marred by the way she leans in closer, hands at Serena’s hips and says, “Who, me?”

Serena forces herself to let go of Bernie’s hair and gives it one last dismayed look – there’s really nothing more to be done – before she reaches over Bernie’s arm, casually allowing her breast to brush against it (and relishing Bernie’s quick intake of breath as she does) to re-open the blinds. With her usual efficiency, Bernie takes care of the others, and then sits down at her desk and picks up a chart.

Serena laughs. “Are you serious?”

Bernie glares at her. “We’re professionals, Serena – we have reputations to uphold. What are security going to think?”

Serena, still lounging against the wall (in a calculated manner), looks her up and down and drawls, “I can’t say I much care.”

Bernie drops the chart. Serena smirks.

A knock. “Hello? Ms Campbell? I’m Tony Forster from hospital security.”

“Ah, marvellous,” Serena says, moving over to the door. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” Bernie snorts. Serena ignores her. “I trust it is within your power to release us?” she asks.

Tony Forster From Hospital Security assures her that yes, it certainly is, and proceeds to do so. “Thank you,” Serena says, shaking his hand emphatically in hopes of detracting any attention from the fact of her being, in truth, somewhat disappointed. 

“Glad to be of service, ma’am. Must have been dull in there,” he jokes, “but at least getting locked in your own office gives you something to do. Imagine if you’d been stuck in a supply cupboard!”

Serena manages an awkward laugh, assaulted by images of Bernie slamming her up against a closed door in a confined space with _no blinds whatsoever_ and ripping a handful of buttons off her blouse. “…imagine that,” she murmurs. Clears her throat. “Thank you again, Mr Forster.”

“Call me Tony,” he says, and winks as he turns to go.

“I think someone’s got themselves an admirer,” Bernie teases, leaning back in her chair, chart still in hand. 

“Oh, do be quiet. And wipe that look off your face, I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?” Bernie leans forward, eyebrow raised, and it’s like a beacon, like the sodding North Star, because Serena is beside her, is leaning over her desk before she even thinks about moving. Bernie glances up at her through her mess of a fringe, coquettish and not in the least convincing. “Because I was thinking that the custodian’s closet off Darwin has a lot more … wiggle room than does ours.”

Serena studies her without speaking a good few moments, just until she starts to squirm, and then leans down and says into her ear, “The one on Keller is even better.”

“Noted,” Bernie says, sultry, but then Serena supposes Bernie could say ‘coleslaw’ and make it sound like a come-on, but she’ll have to wait to test that particular theory. For now … there were things she had to do, sometime, weren’t there?

“Paperwork!” Serena exclaims. “I have to do paperwork.”

“What a coincidence,” Bernie murmurs. “So do I. I am, in fact, already doing paperwork.”

Serena scoffs. “You are not.”

“What’s this then?” Bernie asks, holding up the chart.

“That,” Serena says, crossing her arms over her chest, “is an _upside-down_ chart. From one of my patients, no less.”

Bernie’s mistake is to glance down, and Serena cackles. “I knew you hadn’t read it!”

“Devious, Ms Campbell,” Bernie says. “I like it.” She smirks. “I like you.”

“I like you too, Ms Wolfe. So much, in fact, that I’m going to politely ask you to get out of my – er, our office for at least an hour, else I’ll have done nothing worthy of note today.”

Bernie looks like she wants to make a joke but thinks better of it, and Serena can’t help but smile at the lack of presumption. Bernie stands, sweeps over to kiss her one last time, sweet and swift, and says, “Don’t worry, I’m going. There’s something important I have to do, anyhow.”

“Oh?”

Bernie pauses at the door, turns back to smile, and damn if it isn’t as dopey an expression as Serena has ever seen cross her face. She feels rather proud. “To go and see Ric,” she says softly. “That is if you … if—”

“If you even _think_ about not going up there, Bernie, I will personally lock you in a supply cupboard with me on the other side.”

Bernie salutes her. “Threat received and acknowledged, Ms Campbell. I’m gone.”

“Oh, and Bernie?”

“Yes?”

Serena bites her lip, suddenly uncertain. “To be continued?” she asks.

Bernie smiles again, that same smile, and it releases something tense in Serena that she hadn’t consciously realised was there. “To be continued,” she says. “Definitely. I … I think we need to talk a little more. Uninterrupted. Don’t you?”

Serena resists the urge to mock her, decides to take this for the win, for the gift that it is. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

“Tonight?”

“I can’t,” Serena says, genuinely apologetic, and it slides its way into her voice. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement with Jason’s programming schedule and we’d not get a word in in between.” She hopes the sudden thumping of her heart doesn’t show on her face as she says, “You’d be welcome to join us for dinner, though. If you’d like. How do feel about shepherd's pie?”

“I feel wonderfully about everything that isn’t borsch,” Bernie jokes, and then, more seriously, “I’d be delighted, Serena. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Serena says. “I want you to come.”

“Then I’ll come.”

That hangs in the air between them, thick and charged, Serena’s mouth dry at the thought and all it suggests, until Bernie clears her throat. “Until later, then?”

“Yes,” Serena says. “Until then.”

She doesn’t even pretend not to watch her walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

It is probably fortuitous, Serena supposes, that Bernie is occupied in consultations for the remainder of their shift, because she has no idea how she’d have been able to concentrate if she’d had Bernie’s heated gaze on her, direct and oh so distracting, all afternoon. As it is, they only see one another briefly, in passing: on her way up to Keller to give Sacha a second opinion, Serena makes sure to brush past Bernie where she stands at the nurses’ station; Bernie, likewise, catches Serena’s eye every time she walks past the office, the two of them exchanging smiles, a funny blend of shy and promised-filled, through the barrier of the now-open blinds. 

Bernie’s shift runs over when a transfer up from A&E comes in in the last fifteen minutes, but Serena, still at her desk, directing her plentiful reserves of impatient sexual energy into her workload, doesn’t notice until Bernie comes into the office, having exchanged the blue of her scrubs for those—

—my, Serena _has_ missed those jeans. 

“All right?” Bernie asks, smirking, and it is only when Serena snaps her eyes up from Bernie’s legs that she realises they were there in the first place.

“More than.” Serena smirks back at her, runs her slow, appreciative gaze back down and up again, lingering, and is quietly triumphant when she is repaid by the rapid pinking of Bernie’s cheeks. That’ll teach her to try it on Holby City’s resident flirt. She schools her face into seriousness and says, “Ready to go? I’m just finishing up here.”

“When you are,” Bernie says. She walks around to her own desk, and when Serena looks up and sees her there, squinting at the screen because she still refuses to admit that the font is too small, Serena feels a swell of emotion, sudden and overpowering, that moistens her eyes. She’s really back. She’s really _here_. If Serena’s lips weren’t still tingling, hours later, with the echo of Bernie’s kiss, she might almost be tempted to not believe it.

She blinks the tears away quickly enough that Bernie doesn’t see them, and then goes about saving her work and shutting down her own computer while Bernie pulls on her coat, shoulders her bag, and then just stands in the middle of the room, looking around.

“I take it you’ve missed the stylish décor of our beloved hospital?”

“Oh, yes,” Bernie deadpans. “The décor would have to be the thing I missed most. Undoubtedly.” She looks away from the plant behind Serena’s desk and over to her instead, the corner of her lip quirking up. “Ukrainian interior decorating has nothing on the NHS.”

Serena stands, collects her things together and slides them into her briefcase. “Did you have your own office?” she asks, and as she does, it hits her again that – due entirely to the radio silence of the woman in front of her – she has no idea how she’s passed the last two months. No idea at all.

Bernie shoots her a look, a bit deer-in-the-headlights, but Serena has asked a question, and if talking about it makes Bernie uncomfortable, then that’s her own fault, isn’t it? Serena isn’t the one who told her to bugger off to Kiev. “Not at first,” Bernie says, when she seems to realise she isn’t going to be let off the hook. “The first few weeks I was in an, an open plan sort of setting. We were busy with the practical side of the organisation, orders and inventory and whatnot, so the bureaucracy was largely conducted from the corridors.” 

Bernie, eyes on the ceiling, casts a furtive glance down at her – checking her progress, perhaps? – and Serena thrills a little at the power inherent in getting Bernie Wolfe to talk to her. In having Bernie Wolfe _want_ to talk to her.

( _Me, I’ve changed._ )

Serena picks up her briefcase and turns to find Bernie holding out her coat for her, natural as anything, and her brain goes into overdrive a little. Chivalrous, it turns out, is … something very attractive on a woman. On this woman. She files that observation away for closer consideration and smiles, almost shy, accepts the gesture without comment. Doesn’t miss the smile that lights up Bernie’s face when she does.

They head over to the lift, passing a smugly-grinning Fletch on the way (they ignore him, but they know, by the shared raise of an eyebrow, that this will be all over the ward – or at least all over Casa Fletcher-di Lucca – by midnight tonight), and stand side-by-side, elbows brushing through wool, as the doors close. Serena entertains a brief but satisfying fantasy of Bernie launching at her the moment they are alone, pushing her up against the wall (there is a common theme to these fantasies, Serena has not failed to notice, and later tonight, she’s going to lie in bed and tease that theme right out) and kissing her until she can’t breathe and there are reapplied-lipstick marks all over Bernie’s lovely skin, but Bernie just sighs a little, shifts minutely closer, and turns her head to shoot Serena a smile.

And that intimacy, that small, deliberate show of reassurance, is maybe even better.

*

Jason is waiting for them by the pillar beside the lift next to Pulses, and he is not happy. “You’re late,” he says, pointing at his watch. “By nineteen minutes. I called you, Auntie Serena. Why didn’t you answer?”

“You did?” Serena asks. She pulls her phone out of her bag and glances at it – three missed calls. “I’m sorry, Jason, I didn’t hear it. It must still be on silent.”

“Why have a phone if you aren’t going to answer it?” Jason asks. He looks at Bernie. “Do you answer your phone, Bernie?”

“I try to,” Bernie says, as the three of them start walking out to Serena’s car. “But there are always circumstances where I can’t.”

“What circumstances?”

“One is if I don’t hear it because I happen to be somewhere loud or busy. Another is that it isn’t always possible, if I’m in theatre, for example, or in consultation with a patient.”

Jason nods. “I understand.”

“I knew you would,” Bernie says. “But you know, there are also occasions when I do hear the phone ring, but it would be socially inappropriate to answer. For example…”

Serena had noticed, a couple of weeks ago, that Jason had dropped the previously-standard ‘Doctor’ before Bernie’s name when referring to her in conversation, and she is most fascinated to hear him employ her name to her face, simple and straightforward, even now. She sees a flicker of surprise cross Bernie’s face, but she takes it in stride; Serena feels a startlingly strong pulse of affection for her for the fact that, at least in regards to Jason, nothing has changed. 

Bernie has just wrapped up explaining the social dangers of answering a phone call in a meeting with a superior (or, Serena thinks but doesn’t say, when about to make a speech regarding the opening of a trauma bay), when Jason turns to Serena and asks, “Is Bernie sleeping over at our house tonight?”

Serena doesn’t want to know what colour her face turns at that, but is mildly comforted – bless _Schadenfreude_ – by the way Bernie’s eyes go wide, her mouth drops open, and she fails to form audible words. She must be exhausted, though; post-flight, post-cross country move, post-emotionally draining day, so Serena takes pity on her. This time. “Bernie’s coming over for dinner, Jason,” she says, as Bernie climbs into the car (the back seat, as Jason has already informed her that the passenger seat is his, despite Serena’s protests; fortunately, Bernie doesn’t seem to mind). Buckled in, engine on, she looks over at Jason. “I should have talked to you about it before, I’m sorry. Is it all right if Bernie joins us?”

“Yes,” Jason says, and Serena is gratified that he doesn’t take much time to think about it. “I like Bernie.” He twists around in his seat. “I like you, Bernie. I don’t mind if you come for dinner. I can make you a cup of tea after, when I make one for me and Auntie Serena. You just can’t have the blue mug with the Periodic Table on it, because that one’s mine.”

Bernie laughs. “Thank you, Jason. That’s a stipulation I think I can live with.”

Serena catches her eye in the rear-vision mirror, and Bernie’s smile nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. Onwards and upwards. 

*

Dinner is nice, less awkward than Serena had feared. Jason acts effectively as a tension-buffer by keeping up a steady stream of conversation about infectious diseases (he’s been reading about SARS again) and then switching, just as abruptly, to the most beneficial climate in which to grow orchids, and then the history of the potato famine in Ireland.

Bernie goes with it, engages him both by asking questions and responding thoughtfully to his, and Serena realises, once she reaches the end of her meal, that this is the first time in a long time that she’s managed to eat her dinner before it got cold. She is grateful for Jason’s presence in her life and her heart with a violence that sometimes surprises her, but there are also times, she has to admit, when it’s lovely to be able to share the responsibility of care and attention. She is grateful, too, for the casual way he and Bernie converse, for their natural ease and affection with each other: Bernie is calm and logical, impossible for Jason to offend, and the intense curiosity about the world that guides her own thinking, shared so entirely by Jason’s own practical, knowledge-hungry mind, make them an excellent pair. She is grateful for the fact that she doesn’t need to worry that Bernie will accidentally say something rude or condescending. She is grateful for the sound of their laughter mingling over some point of obscurity, grateful for Jason’s being treated respectfully by her colleague and friend and—

—and what? she wonders, as Bernie glances over and catches her eye, licking her fork clean with a sharp, suggestive expression that makes Serena very near squirm in her seat. Serena soon gets her back, though, by moaning appreciatively into her wineglass, by dipping her tongue out to slowly, deliberately lick a stray droplet off the rim. She looks up, smirking, and notes Bernie’s sudden, dark-eyed silence with glee. 

“Bernie?” Jason asks. He waves a hand in front of her face. “Are you listening to me?”

“…yes,” she manages, turning to him and smiling. “Yes, I am, I just got distracted for a moment.”

Jason peers at her. “By what?”

“By thinking about something I’d like to do, later,” Bernie says, casting Serena a wicked, daring look that spreads lust, white-hot and pure, through Serena’s belly and down.

“You should write it down,” Jason suggests, moving his knife and fork neatly together. “That way you won’t forget it.”

Bernie licks her lips and says, “That’s a good idea, Jason. I might just do that.”

Serena is still sitting, unable to move, unable to think of anything but shoving Bernie down against the expensive oak table she inherited from her father and having her way with her, _right now_ , when Bernie rises smoothly from her chair and says, “Come on, then, Jason, let’s get this lot tidied up. We don’t want to miss the start of _Countdown_.”

Serena stands as well, moves to press a hand to Bernie’s arm across the table. “You don’t have to do that, Bernie,” she murmurs. “You’re my guest.”

“And I didn’t bring anything with me, so it’s only right I should help clear the table to make up for it. Jason will show me where everything goes, won’t you, Jason?”

“Yes,” Jason says, then: “Are you really going to stay for _Countdown_?”

Bernie looks over at Serena, who is still feeling vaguely bewildered at the thought of someone else being there to help her tidy up, and says gently, “That’s up to your auntie.”

Something about the uncertainty on her face as she says it melts whatever was left of the ice encasing Serena’s heart. “Do you want to stay?” she asks. Bernie just nods, eyes soft. “Then yes, Jason, Bernie is staying.”

They’ve already stacked the dishwasher and stored the leftover dessert in the fridge before Serena remembers that Bernie _did_ bring something. Her gift from this morning, so thoughtfully discovered and rescued by Jason.

She harbours the distinct suspicion that Bernie won’t appreciate fanfare, so Serena unwraps the bottle in the kitchen, unobserved, when Bernie slips into the bathroom. It’s Shiraz, of course – no less than what she expected – wrapped and taped in a haphazard way that makes Serena both roll her eyes and stifle a fond, disbelieving laugh. Where had she done it, in the taxi on the way from the airport?

There can be no more appropriate time to drink it, really, than when Bernie has willingly consented to an episode of _Countdown_ after an unspectacular dinner of shepherd's pie and fruit salad, so Serena sets aside the wrapping paper (such as it is), uncorks the bottle and stands it on the kitchen counter to breathe.

Bernie pops her head into the kitchen a minute later. “Hi,” she says, soft. Serena, wine glasses in hand, startles a little at the sound of her voice but can’t help smiling at her. She’s _here_. “Shall we? I believe we’re being summoned.”

“Of course,” Serena says. She grabs the bottle of wine in the other hand and moves to leave the kitchen, pauses when she passes Bernie, leans up to kiss her softly on the cheek. “Thank you for this,” she murmurs.

Bernie looks blank, staring at her lips, until she registers the bottle of wine. “Oh!” she says. “That, that’s … it’s nothing. I mean you’re welcome. Uh.” She is back to staring at Serena’s lips, and Serena takes the opportunity to smirk. 

“Come on, then,” she says. “You don’t want to risk the wrath of Jason.”

To Serena’s relief, they make it in time to see the last advert before the show starts (she hadn’t really been kidding about Jason’s wrath), and after some awkwardness in regards to seating arrangements – Jason has taken his armchair, as ever, but Bernie remains standing, hovering, looming, even after Serena has settled into her customary end of the couch.

“I, uh,” Bernie says, “where should I—”

“Here,” Serena says, and reaches out to physically pull Bernie down beside her. She turns and takes in Bernie’s stunned expression, smiles brightly. “All right?”

“Perfectly … perfect,” Bernie manages.

“Do get comfortable, then,” Serena drawls, and pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and spreads it over their legs. She takes a moment to be grateful for the volume at which Jason insists on watching telly, another to be grateful for the home-field advantage that automatically comes with hosting in your own house, hands Bernie her glass of wine (makes sure to bat her eyelashes and brush their fingers as she does), and prepares to have fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted them to have sex, but nooooo, apparently 10k of slow burn was necessary before that could happen. FINE THEN.

Serena has never enjoyed an episode of _Countdown_ as much as this one, not that she’d be able to recall a single word or number to anyone who’d ask. Jason sits there, focused as ever, diligently recording answers onto his tablet, while Serena does her level best to drive Bernie completely insane. She starts subtle; doesn’t want to come on too strong, after all; doesn’t want Bernie to realise what she’s doing. Not yet.

She starts with her fingers. Taps them against the long, thin stem of her glass, curls them up and around the bell. Runs the nail of her pointer finger slowly around the rim, and doesn’t have to glance sideways to know Bernie’s watching. She keeps her own eyes glued on the screen the whole time, affecting an attentiveness she has never felt.

At the start of the numbers round, she offers to top up Bernie’s glass, standing to retrieve the bottle – she could have reached it from where she’d been sitting, of course, but then she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to bend over to pour, affording Bernie a view of her cleavage (and hopefully her bra) that results in a visible swallow.

“Thanks,” Bernie rasps, voice dark and wine-rich, and Serena suppresses a shiver at the sound. Smiles, sets the bottle back on the table beside the couch, sits down again. A little closer, this time. She looks over at Bernie and raises her glass. “Cheers,” she says.

By the time the second round ends (Jason is victorious – imagine her surprise), Serena has curled her stocking-clad feet up onto the cushion beside her. She sighs and shifts, allows her foot to slide minutely closer to Bernie’s, also curled. Waits half a minute. Slides it even further. Waits three minutes and slides it against Bernie’s thigh, warm and strong. Leaves it there.

Round three, and it’s Bernie – emboldened, perhaps, by what she surely knows is no accident – who starts to move closer. Serena feels her adjust her weight, feels the sudden shift of cool air between them as Bernie moves away and then resettles, shoulder pressed lightly, almost too lightly, against Serena’s own.

Serena breathes in deep and then releases it, relaxing herself into Bernie even further. Bernie does the same.

Five minutes later, Serena sets her wine glass aside and slides her hand under the blanket to smooth down her already-smooth trouser leg. Happens to casually leave it there, hidden. Thirty seconds pass and Bernie’s hand has tracked a similar path, comes to rest beside Serena’s on the warm leather beneath them. 

Serena wants so very much to be strong, but the temptation of Bernie’s skin, the delicious knowledge of Bernie playing along with this ridiculous ploy makes her weak, and it is she who closes the quarter-inch of remaining distance between them, she who slides her pinky over to caress Bernie’s own; one stroke, two, and then still.

Bernie hitches in a sharp breath, responds by turning Serena’s hand over and lacing their fingers together, squeezing briefly before she moves downwards, circling the pad of her thumb over the delicate inner skin of Serena’s wrist, a motion somehow both simple and unbearably erotic. She immediately realises that Bernie is echoing another kind of movement, another kind of dance with her thumb, and, comparison once made, it takes every ounce of strength Serena has left not to moan, not to toss the blanket aside, push Bernie back onto the cushions of this expensive leather sofa and straddle her and show her just what she—

—Serena clenches a fist with her free hand, arousal pulsing hot and insistent within her. She knows she’s the one who started this game, who challenged Bernie to match her, but she has lost track, in the last few moments, of just who is winning.

She has yet to look over at Bernie, and knows that for as long as Bernie is killing her with suggestion – nails moving gently over her forearm, noticeable in every change of pressure against her shoulder – she won’t be able to. The memory of Bernie’s eyes in the office earlier, dark and hot and ringed with desire after they broke apart, panting, is almost more than Serena can take; the reality would just about break her. And oh, does she intend to be broken, and tonight, but rather not with her nephew as an audience, thanks very much.

The conundrum segment passes in a blur, a haze of lust, Serena distracted and aching all over with want, Bernie’s breath shallow and quick (Serena had managed to manoeuvre her foot between Bernie’s thighs, a foot now trapped and falling asleep, but Serena can’t really bring herself to care), and it is the single sweetest thing Serena has ever heard when Jason announces his intention of showering now, in the hour before the documentary is due to begin.

“Are you feeling all right, Auntie Serena?” he asks, leaning over to study her closely. 

Serena resists the urge to swat him away, says instead, “I’m perfectly fine, Jason. Why do you ask?”

“You look flushed. Have you drunk too much wine again?”

Bernie makes a sound that might, if she’s very unlucky, have been a snort; Serena shoots her a look and then says to Jason, “No, I haven’t. I’ve just had two glasses.”

“Hmm,” Jason says. He backs away from her, looking suspicious. “You’d better not be getting sick.”

“I’m not getting sick,” she says, patiently.

Jason turns to Bernie. “You’d better examine her, Bernie. Will you? Make sure she’s not getting sick?”

Bernie swallows, nods. Nods again. “I … promise to examine her very thoroughly, Jason. You can count on it.”

“Good,” Jason says. He smiles. “Thank you, Bernie.”

“It is absolutely my pleasure, Jason.”

“I’m going now,” he says.

And he does. He goes first to the linen cupboard to retrieve his clean towel, and then up to his bedroom to fetch his pyjamas. Then he passes by where she and Bernie are sat on his way down to the bathroom, goes inside, shuts and locks the door. They wait, Bernie silent, Serena coiled tight like a spring.

As soon as he’s gone, Bernie turns to her, a wicked glint in her dark, dark eyes that makes Serena positively _throb_. “Well, I’d best do as he says, hadn’t I? Check you out? Make sure you—or, or that…” 

It isn’t the supply cupboard on Keller, it isn’t the lift, it isn’t the dining table she inherited from her father, but it is incredible – even more incredible, dare she admit it, for the fact that it’s finally happening. It’s finally _real_. She launches herself at Bernie, propelled by the culminated desire of days and weeks and months and the longest six hours of her life – how have they gone without this for six whole hours? How? – and pushes her down onto the cushions, none-too-gently, to pick up where they left off.

No fantasy, however inventive, has prepared her for the length of her body pressed against Bernie’s, limbs entwined, even fully clothed: no fantasy has yet managed to accurately represent the knowledge, the feeling, of Bernie being here – in her home, on her sofa, in her arms, against her skin, snogging Serena like her life depends on it. Bernie tastes a little like Shiraz, as they both must, but whatever she tastes of beneath it is wonderfully addicting, too; a taste Serena can’t name, can’t describe, but which she chases and seeks and courts desperately, hungrily, by opening her mouth beneath Bernie’s and licking in. 

Bernie’s hands are all over her, have made short work of her new blouse by tossing it somewhere out of sight (she’ll have to iron it again) (she doesn’t care) and are now getting acquainted with the hot, trembling skin of Serena’s stomach, sweeping those wonderfully strong, deft fingers up and down her sides and over her belly, across her hips just beneath the waistband of her trousers; exploring, seeking and finding and returning, over and over, to the spots that draw the most sensitive responses.

God, how has it never been like this? Serena is fifty-one years old, she is a woman of the world, she had a husband, she has had lovers before and after him, has known love, has known _passion_ , but how has it never been like this? It’s as though Bernie, this attraction to Bernie, exponentially multiplied by the strength of Bernie’s attraction to her, has swooped in and altered every rule by which Serena thought she’d been playing; as though Bernie has shown her that somehow, all this time, Serena has, in fact, been playing an entirely different game. Maybe the wrong one.

All this, and they aren’t even naked.

Serena surges down, relishes the freedom to arch her back and feel Bernie against her, hip to hip, breast to breast, without having to fear (God forbid) the sudden entrance of one of her colleagues or a call from the dreaded red phone. Her own hands are doing a spectacular job of permanently disqualifying her from heterosexuality; she gets her hands up under Bernie’s tight black shirt and touches and touches, fulfils every fantasy of running her fingers over Bernie’s toned abs, up and along the well-defined bones of her ribcage, her thumb across the raised flesh of the scar on her chest. She notes with interest the way Bernie bucks up into her, responsive to the slightest of touches right there, and Serena leans down and licks experimentally at the tissue.

“Oh,” Bernie gasps, hand flying up to cup the back of Serena’s head, to hold her there or push or away or maybe both. “Oh, Serena, you don’t have to, if … if you don’t … it isn’t …”

“I want to,” Serena tells her, lifting her head to look into Bernie’s eyes. “If it’s all right with you. I want to touch you everywhere.”

“Who am I to, to argue with that then?” Bernie asks, on a laugh, and she lets her head drop back, effective permission.

Serena even gets as far as undoing half her buttons and running her tongue along three-quarters of the length of the scar, darting out to catch the hint of warm flesh peeking out from Bernie’s practical bra – simple black cotton but shapely – before Bernie actually lets out a _growl_ and bodily flips her, startling a laugh from Serena before the laugh turns to a groan as Bernie lowers her head and staggers hot, wet kisses over her lips, her throat, her chest and—

— _oh_. Bernie slides aside the neck of Serena’s now-rumpled undershirt and circles her tongue around the skin she meets: the top of her breast – not close enough to catch the bra, not nearly close enough to catch the nipple – but somehow that suggestion, the feel of that hot mouth on her skin, so close to where she wants it, where she’s so often imagined it, flushes arousal through her blood with even more power than it would have had Bernie met her target directly.

“Bernie,” Serena hears herself saying, nonsense and the purest form of truth, “oh, God, please—you—I need—” 

“What?” Bernie rasps. She looks up, pupils blown, and at the sight of her, shirt half-off, chest peppered proudly with hickeys of Serena’s own doing, Serena cants her hips upwards to press against Bernie’s. “Serena—”

“Take my shirt off,” Serena orders, and Bernie’s eyes seem to turn, as if it were possible, even darker; she doesn’t even hesitate before obeying. She slides a hand beneath Serena’s back and raises her slightly, enough to slip the other hand between couch and silk, and together they get her out of the cumbersome fabric. That garment lands itself the same fate as the infamous blouse, but right now, Serena doubts she’d notice if her entire wardrobe lay strewn across the floor of her living room, because Bernie is gazing down at her, drinking in the sight of her in her bra, her skin flushed, like she’s never seen anything more—

Serena swallows, emotion hitting her like a wave, and she runs her fingers through Bernie’s tangled hair. “All right?” she murmurs. It comes out more insecure than she wants or expects.

Bernie raises her gaze to meet Serena’s, and Serena is shocked to see tears gathering at the corners. “You’re beautiful, Serena,” Bernie says, voice low. “You’re so beautiful.”

Serena blushes, unsure what to do with all that intensity, directed at her. “You’re one to talk,” she finally says, teasing, and Bernie just gives her a lopsided smile. She understands, perhaps, that this is Serena’s way of saying _thank you_. 

“I want to touch you,” Bernie says.

Serena strokes a hand through Bernie’s hair, lets it wander down to her neck, her back. Cocks an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for, then? I’m game.”

Bernie shakes her head on a laugh, leans down to kiss her briefly. “I … I want to do this right, Serena. I’ve made so many mistakes in regards to us, so far, and I … I don’t want to make more. I’ve gotten so many things wrong, but I … I want to get this right. This.”

Serena rolls her hips up, hooks a leg around Bernie’s and grins wickedly. “I’d say this was a good start, wouldn’t you?”

Bernie groans, drops her head to rest between Serena’s breasts. Serena can’t pretend it doesn’t thrill her, even that small contact. The thought of Bernie’s mouth…

“I’m not sure,” Bernie says, lifting her head, though her fingers are still dancing gently, terribly, over the lace edging the top of Serena’s bra. “Much as I…” she trails off, distracted. “This is a … very, very nice bra, Serena.”

Serena glances down: black lace and burgundy satin, cups hugging exactly where they should. “Oh, this old thing? Forgot to do the washing, that’s all.”

Bernie’s eyes almost bug out of her head, and it makes the fact that Serena accidentally-deliberately forgot to do the washing entirely worth the fact that she’ll have to hunt around for clean knickers tomorrow.

“Is that a … a _front_ clasp?”

“’Easy access,’” Serena drawls, sliding a finger down between the cups, lingering. At Bernie’s expression, she smirks and adds, “That’s what the woman in the shop called it.”

“I,” Bernie says. “I – you – I—”

“Was there a clause in there somewhere, darling?”

“You’re … you’re teasing me,” Bernie manages, fingers flexing on Serena’s sides, thumbs digging deliciously into her hipbones, and Serena bites her lip, arches up.

“I would never,” she deadpans, “ _never_ dream of teasing you, my big macho army medic.”

Bernie kisses her, kisses her like it’s her only chance at living. “Oh, Serena,” she rasps, when she finally pulls away, “I want you. You have no idea how much I want you.”

“I actually think I can imagine,” Serena murmurs. She runs her nails up Bernie’s sides, dares to bring them around to skim her breasts over the cotton of her bra. “What was it you wanted to tell me, just now?”

It takes a few more kisses to convince her to fess up, but Bernie finally drags herself away and says, “Much as I would love … _love_ to continue this right now, I can’t help recalling that Jason is in the bathroom, not, not on Mars, and we…”

Serena starts giggling uncontrollably, buries her face in Bernie’s shoulder as she imagines Jason walking back into the living room in his Captain America pyjamas and tilting his head at them, brow furrowed. _Why are your clothes on the floor, Auntie Serena?_ he might ask. _And why does Bernie look so … ohhh, I understand._

It’s quite an effective proverbial cold shower, but Serena makes sure to lean up to kiss Bernie, hot and dirty as she can make it, just so she knows that this isn’t the end. That she isn’t stopping because she wants to. Bernie’s fingers linger on the clasp of her bra, trace lovingly over the lace as they pull apart. 

“You’re right,” Serena tells her, relishing the ragged sound of Bernie’s breathing. “Unfortunately.”

Bernie grins, pink-cheeked, and then, a moment later, turns her head away to try to stifle a violent yawn, but Serena sees it. They disentangle their limbs enough to sit up, and Serena slides a hand up the back of Bernie’s neck, strokes the hair at the nape. “You’ve had quite a day,” she says, gently. 

“Yes, quite.” Bernie smirks at her.

“Not what I meant,” Serena says, but she’s smiling. “What time did you set off this morning?”

“Ha,” Bernie says, too lazy to be a laugh. “I’m not sure you really want to know that.”

“Add to that the two-hour time difference, the trip from the airport, the fact that you haven’t been home … I’m sorry, perhaps I oughtn’t have invited you over.”

Bernie shakes her head, smiles when Serena brushes her fringe out of her eyes. “Don’t say that, Serena. I was perfectly capable of deciding for myself, and I wanted to be here. I still do.” She reaches out to catch Serena’s other hand in her own, knots their fingers. “This has been … a dream.”

Serena, absurdly, feels herself colouring; sitting there in her bra and all. “I know what you mean,” she murmurs. “Think we’ll wake up and find it never happened?”

“God, I hope not,” Bernie says. “Though I wouldn’t mind too much if it meant we’d get to do this all again.”

Serena laughs, squeezes her fingers once and then hoists herself off the couch to go in search of her vanished clothing. Even Jason won’t spend an entire hour in the shower, and Serena would really rather be dressed before he returns. Simplifies matters.

Bernie has refastened her shirt and is leaning back against the sofa, watching her, smug and sexy and predatory and—Serena huffs as she looks around for one or other of her shirts, straightens the lamp (on Bernie’s side) that has mysteriously toppled over. “Stop distracting me,” she mutters.

“What am I doing?”

“You know very well.”

“Fine then, I’ll help you,” Bernie says, and stands up to do so, but manages only to distract Serena even further when she bends down (deliberately, Serena would bet) to look behind the armchair. The way those jeans hug her curves…

Serena clears her throat and looks away, absently picks up the remote control and puts it down again. Not under there. On the telly?

“Got it!” Bernie exclaims, straightening her body in an obnoxiously lithe movement from where she has been digging around on the floor. So it _was_ behind the armchair, after all. “Got one, anyway.”

It’s the blouse; Serena takes it, shakes out the creases – tries, at least – and buttons it up. “Well?” she demands, hands on her hips.

Bernie shrugs, pulls out her tragic puppy-dog eyes. “What?”

“What have you done with the other one? It isn’t my fault you insist on demonstrating the strength of an Olympic javelin player during … everyday activities.”

“’Everyday,’ eh?” Bernie laughs, waggles her eyebrows. “Now _there’s_ a … very nice thought.”

It is at that moment that Jason chooses to reappear, and he stops in the middle of the corridor and smiles at them both. “Ah, good, you’re both still here. I’ll make the tea in thirteen minutes, so it doesn’t get cold before the documentary starts. What’s your favourite colour, Bernie?”

“I like red,” Bernie says.

“That’s good. We have a red mug. How do you like your tea?”

“Black, thanks, Jason. No sugar. Would you like a hand carrying them?”

“I can do it,” Jason says.

Serena gestures wildly at her when Jason has headed into the kitchen – _where is my undershirt?_ –and Bernie gestures back, spread hands and a helpless shrug. Serena rolls her eyes and hopes that Jason doesn’t ask.

He returns and carefully distributes the mugs. Bernie returns to her seat beside Serena on the sofa, an inch of space between them once again. Serena replaces the blanket. Grins into her tea and thinks: _round two_.


	5. Chapter 5

Round two is a lot less fun, it turns out, because about seven minutes into the soothing lull of David Attenborough’s voice, Bernie falls asleep: head wedged in the gap between the back cushions, half-empty cup slack in her hand. Serena smiles fondly at her, unseen; rescues the cup and thereby her sofa, leans over to tuck a pillow in to her side to support her back.

She is loath to wake her even after the credits have rolled and Jason has headed to bed (after extracting a promise from Serena that she will tell Bernie all she’s missed), but she knows Bernie’s back won’t thank her if it has to spend a night on the couch, so she reaches over and presses a hand to her shoulder, squeezes gently.

“Bernie,” she murmurs. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

Serena shakes her a little. “Bernie,” she says, louder. This time she stirs, wrenching her eyes tighter closed before she finally shifts and blinks one open, rests her gaze on Serena a moment before she smiles.

“Hi,” she says. Then: “Oh no, did I fall asleep?”

“Looks like it,” Serena says.

Bernie sits up straighter, scrubs a hand down her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Horrid of me.”

“I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you,” Serena says, dry. Bernie rests her head against the back of the sofa, watches Serena with warm, sleepy eyes. “What?” Serena asks.

“Just looking,” Bernie says, softly. “It’s so good to see you.”

Serena might not actually be shirtless, anymore, but Bernie’s gaze has a way of making her feel that way. She is tempted to look away, to blush, but forces herself to hold her gaze. “It’s getting late,” she murmurs, when Bernie yawns again. “Do you want me to run you home?”

“I’ll call a taxi,” Bernie says. “I wouldn’t—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Serena says, cutting her off. Now she does blush, though she trusts that the low light of the room will disguise it. “What I, uh, _meant_ to say was … I’d be happy to run you home, but you’re also … well, you’d be most welcome to stay here, too.” Serena rolls her eyes internally at herself. “In Elinor’s old room, or … or in mine.” She tangles her own fingers together. “If you like.”

Bernie stares at her for a few moments and then swallows. “Well,” she says, slowly, “I suppose … it _would_ be a little irresponsible of me to, to ask you to drive now, wouldn’t it? You have had a couple of glasses, after all.”

Serena inclines her head, shifts a little closer to her on the sofa. “That’s certainly true.”

“And your shift starts a few hours earlier than mine does tomorrow, so it does seem to be more logical to drop me at home on your way in, rather than making an extra trip now.” She looks up at Serena through her eyelashes – exhausted, dark circles ringing her eyes like a raccoon – but still so beautiful it makes Serena’s heart race. “Don’t you think?”

Serena smiles at her, can’t resist reaching out to stroke a thumb along her cheekbone. “I do think.”

*

Serena is now herself too tired to pretend she had any intention of letting Bernie sleep in Ellie’s old room, and Bernie is too tired to protest. Serena pushes her into the en suite off her bedroom with a borrowed pair of pyjama bottoms and a soft old t-shirt (BOSTON PHILHARMONIC ORCHESTRA, it shouts in red), and gives her a toothbrush from the pile of spares she keeps for when Ellie visits and has inevitably forgotten her own.

Serena prefers to shower in the morning, so after a quick but vaguely panicked deliberation about what to wear (regular pyjamas? Sexy pyjamas? No, there’s no such thing as sexy pyjamas, and if there are, Serena doesn’t own them. A nightie? No, winter nighties aren’t sexy either), she decides Bernie’s too tired to take much notice anyway, and throws on a mirror of what she’d given her (though her own t-shirt is maybe a little bit narrower, just at the chest). 

She sometimes gets hot flashes at night, rarely helped by the wine, so while Bernie’s still in the bathroom, she flicks the extra blanket down to the bottom of the bed and hurriedly shoves her hot water bottle into a drawer. She knows Bernie well enough to not expect to wake up with their legs and arms entwined, their bodies flush – Bernie just doesn’t seem like the cuddling type. Serena might think about trying to change that, some day, but not tonight. Tonight, they both need to sleep.

It is with firmness that she reminds herself of that fact when she first sees Bernie emerge from her bathroom, looking exhausted but disarmingly right in her borrowed clothes. She’s showered quickly and her hair is still damp – towelled hastily dry and unbrushed, by the looks of it – but the sight of her standing here in Serena’s things, in Serena’s bedroom, even on a night just about guaranteed to remain chaste, still has the power to twist her stomach into a knot. A good kind of knot.

They stare at each other, the bed between them, until Bernie coughs. “I, uh, wasn’t sure what to do with the toothbrush,” she says. “I just left it on the counter.”

“Thank you,” Serena says. “Good.”

They stare at each other some more. Serena tries not to be affected by the fact that, even dead tired, even dressed in the single most unflattering thing she owns, Bernie’s eyes still track her figure, up and then down.

“Come now, this is ridiculous,” Serena finally says. “Get in, Major.”

Bernie does as she’s told. It is evident from the stack of books and medical journals, from Serena’s reading glasses, from the glass of water and the tube of hand cream littered across the bedside table which side is hers. It’s odd, perhaps, that she should feel more struck by the intimacy of this, of Bernie witnessing her nightly rituals, of Bernie potentially noticing the fact that she’s reading Georgette Heyer, than of the intimacy of Bernie being in her bed – but isn’t it often the small and unexpected details that make something real?

“Comfortable?” Serena asks, as she watches Bernie fluff up a pillow and then settle down against it, turned to face her, smile on her lips.

“Perfect,” Bernie murmurs. Serena has mirrored her posture, a whisper of space between them, and Bernie extends a hand to twine her fingers in Serena’s own. “Thank you,” she says.

“My pleasure.”

“Not just for this,” Bernie says. “For everything.” She shifts a little closer, thumb brushing Serena’s knuckles. “I … I’d hardly dared dream that I would ever get – that I’d ever see—”

“—the inner sanctum?” Serena jokes, then has to huff out an affectionate laugh when Bernie blushes.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Oh, Bernie.”

“I’d hardly even dared to hope you’d even _speak_ to me again, let alone … let alone forgive me, and – I’m just sorry I’ve done so much that warrants forgiveness in the first place.” Bernie brings her other hand up to trace the lines of Serena’s face, her fingers warm and rough from years of plastic and antiseptic and dry air and work, but so wonderfully, wonderfully welcome all the same. She is almost reverent in her motions, and Serena shuffles even closer still. Their bodies are almost touching, now, and Serena slides her calf between Bernie’s, sighs at the contact. “I’m sorry about how I acted this morning,” Bernie murmurs.

“Which part?” Serena asks wryly.

“All of it, really, apart from the … well, you know. Later.”

“Yes,” Serena says, lip quirking up. “I know.”

“How I acted about Robbie, especially,” Bernie goes on. “It was wrong of me to be, to be jealous, and it was off of me to express it the way I did.” She cups Serena’s cheek in her gentle hand, shakes her head. “I had no right. I’d … I’d like to blame it on jetlag or tiredness, or, or nerves, but there’s no excuse. I … I’m sorry, Serena. Can you forgive me?”

Bernie snogging her in their office, Bernie on top of her on the sofa, half-naked, Bernie touching her so gently in bed; Serena finds all these things easier to fathom than the fact that Bernie has apologised to her so many times in the last twelve hours. It’s one thing to hear someone say the words _I’ve changed_ , but it’s quite another to have them actually mean it; Serena still isn’t sure in which category Bernie belongs, will likely not know for a while, but this openness, this willingness to set aside her pride and talk, even when she’s so tired, even when it’s so hard for her, is certainly a capital start.

“Yes,” she murmurs, hardly has to think about it. She reaches over to switch off her low-lit beside lamp, plunging them both into near-darkness. “You didn’t handle it well, but I understand that it was a bit of a shock and you … you weren’t at your best.”

“If that were a valid excuse…” Bernie starts, but Serena presses a finger to her lips.

“Hush, now. It’s in the past. Don’t beat yourself up.” She grins, though Bernie can’t see it. “Well, not for too long.”

Bernie laughs and, to Serena’s welcome surprise, rolls onto her back and draws Serena in close, wraps an arm around her. It takes some choreography. This isn’t the first time she’s noticed, but Bernie isn’t a man; is softer in different places (breasts and hips), bonier in others (shoulders and ribcage), and is shorter and narrower and more toned than either Robbie or Edward. They figure it out together, though, Serena eventually settling half-diagonally on the bed, her head tucked into the warm space of Bernie’s chest, below her chin, one arm across her stomach (strategically relocated to just above her bladder; crisis averted).

They are lying there, quiet, listening to one another breathe, when Serena says, “Are you going to be able to go to sleep like this?”

Bernie strokes her fingers along Serena’s arm, up to her collarbones and back down. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I just … didn’t have you pegged for a cuddler.”

“As it happens, I can get to sleep just about anywhere.” She can hear Bernie smirking, she really can. “Been thinking about it a lot, have you?”

“Now and then.” Serena tickles her, drawing an extraordinarily uncharacteristic giggle out of Bernie that she files away with great interest for sometime soon. “I had to find a way to pass all those long, lonely nights, didn’t I?” She slips a hand beneath Bernie’s t-shirt and drags it slowly across her stomach. Lowers her voice. “Had to keep myself occupied in your absence, somehow, didn’t I?”

Bernie groans, squeezes Serena’s leg between her own. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Serena pauses her wandering hand but leaves it where it is, splayed over Bernie’s belly. “Possibly,” she admits. “But I think I’m entitled to a little vengeance, don’t you?”

“I know better than to argue with you, Ms Campbell,” Bernie says, softly.

Serena reaches up to pat her clumsily on the cheek. “Very good. Now go to sleep, or you’ll be of no use to me at all tomorrow.”

Bernie kisses her forehead and murmurs, “Yes, ma’am.”

Within minutes, Serena feels her relax, her breathing evened out: a steady pulse beneath Serena’s ear.

*

Serena would love to relish the first time waking up with Bernie beside her, Bernie’s golden hair a glorious mess on her pillow, long limbs a mess on her bed, but it’s sadly impossible: Serena’s alarm starts pinging, ripping her out of a REM cycle to leave her bleary-eyed and confused, and she soon realises that her left leg, trapped beneath Bernie’s right, has fallen asleep. Her first order of business is to extricate it, gritting her teeth as she massages her thigh in an effort to encourage the pins and needles to pass. She’d set the alarm as late as she could reasonably justify, but she and Jason are both due to start at eight, so it is with mild reluctance that she doesn’t dither before leaning over to shake Bernie awake.

Bernie is lying flat on her stomach, sprawled out across half the bed – king-sized, fortunately, or they’d have to have words – with her face mashed into the space between their pillows. ( _You shouldn’t sleep on your stomach, Serena,_ her own mother had always said. _You don’t have the sort of face that can well bear winkles._ If she looked like Bernie, she thinks, she probably wouldn’t care either.) Serena watches her enviously for a moment before reaching out to run a gentle hand over her back.

“Bernie,” she murmurs. “Are you awake?”

Bernie grunts. Serena raises an eyebrow; tries again and gets another grunt for her trouble. Thinks, affectionately, about the way Bernie’s hair usually looks in the morning, and heads on into the bathroom (via the search for clean knickers, as predicted). She figures Bernie can use the extra sleep. 

When Serena comes out, showered and made up but still only in her trousers and camisole – a different camisole; she still has to figure out where the other one ended up – she almost laughs at the sight of Bernie, sitting up in bed, cross-legged, head in her hands.

“How much did you actually drink last night?” Serena asks, by way of greeting, and Bernie looks up and smiles wryly at her.

“Either too much or not enough. I’m not yet sure which.”

“Ah,” Serena says, knowingly. “One of those days, then. Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” Bernie says, and doesn’t move. Serena raises an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to summon the will to stand.”

“I’ll make us some coffee, shall I?”

“Oh, please,” Bernie moans. “You’re a goddess.”

Serena has to pass by Bernie’s side of the bed to get to the door, and she can’t resist walking over, reaching out to tuck a lock of wild hair behind her ear, lingering there before she lets her hand fall. Touching her, being permitted to touch her, is still such a thrill – she leans in, brushes her lips against the spot her fingers have left, murmurs, “I’ll make you remember that, later.”

She makes sure to sway her hips with a little more exaggeration when she leaves the room, Bernie’s gaze burning into her from behind, and Serena grins, smug, once she’s alone in the hallway. Poleaxing Bernie Wolfe before she’s even had time to wake up isn’t going to lose its appeal in a hurry.

Despite the near-miss Serena suffers when she walks back into the bedroom, bearing mugs, to the sight of Bernie’s naked back, of Bernie’s hands reaching around the expanse of smooth, pale skin to fasten her bra, they manage to make it out the door on time. They haven’t kissed yet, today, made shy by the quiet of the misty grey morning, by the strange, precious novelty of seeing one another first thing in this unguarded way. They haven’t kissed yet, but Serena has rarely felt so very wanted as she feels right now, aware as she can’t help but be of Bernie’s dark eyes tracking her movements, Bernie’s lips curving up whenever she turns and happens to meet her gaze.

Serena feels light, jubilant, _sexy_. Like she has a secret and it’s dancing in her eyes.

As promised, she drops Bernie and her questionably meagre belongings off on the way, longs to kiss her lips but contents herself with a brush to the cheek through the rolled-down window, crisp air on her skin. Jason is beside her, after all, and she doesn’t especially feel like answering questions about her not-yet-sex life before she’s had a second cup of coffee. She lingers on the kerb, engine running, watching Bernie enter the building and disappear, before Jason taps her on the shoulder.

“Auntie Serena,” he says, “We’re—”

“—going to be late, I know,” she says. She slides the car into motion. “I’m going.”

*

The first few hours of Bernie’s shift, they barely set eyes on each other. Almost the moment Bernie arrives, Serena is called up to see Ric, leaving them little time for anything but a quick squeeze of the hand in the office, and then, just as she returns, Bernie is paged up to assist with an emergency on Darwin. 

Serena is coming out of theatre when Bernie finally returns, still in her navy scrubs, her hair a sweaty mess from her scrub cap. Serena looks her up and down, smirking. “That’s a good look on you,” she says. “Apart from the blood.”

Bernie looks a little wrung-out, but gives her a tired smile. “I was just going to change.”

“See you back in the office?”

Bernie nods. Serena watches her walk away, allows her eyes to drink their fill of Bernie’s legs, her hips, her shoulders—

“All right?” Fletch, in her ear, smirking insufferably. 

Serena rolls her eyes at him. “Do you have that bloodwork for me? From Mr Stein?”

Fletch’s eyes go wide and he starts walking backwards, thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Uh, yeah, yeah, I was just—”

“I’m sure you were,” Serena says, then looks down at her own scrubs and makes a face. That lacerated liver was her last scheduled procedure for the afternoon, so she heads in the direction of the locker room herself. It is quite the coincidence that Bernie happens to still be in there when she enters; that Bernie happens, right at that moment, to be standing in front of her locker, hands on her hips, in clean blue scrub trousers and bra.

Twice in one day, Serena thinks, could almost be considered a sign. Couldn’t it? 

Bernie turns around at the sound of the door creaking open and smiles a little when she sees her. “Oh, hi.”

“Hello there.” Serena smiles back at her, leans against the door. “My, I do appear to have impeccable timing today.”

“Why?” Bernie asks, in what appears to be a moment of genuine confusion before she glances down at herself and bites her lip. “Ah.”

“Mmm.” Serena pushes herself off the door and walks towards her, relishes the fact that Bernie’s eyes are immediately drawn to her hips, though she knows the scrubs are far from a tool of seduction. When she comes to a stop at Bernie’s side, she reaches out to straighten her bra strap, slightly twisted, and moves in closer. Her eyes search Bernie’s, search their clouded depths. She squeezes her shoulder. “You all right?”

Serena would know that haunted look anywhere, would know what it means, and Bernie nods tightly; her head saying yes, her every strained muscle blaring no. “We did everything we could,” she says, mechanical.

Serena steps even closer, strokes Bernie’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Knows it’s useless, can say nothing less.

Bernie turns her head into Serena’s palm and ghosts her lips over the skin. “It is how it is.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Hmm,” Bernie murmurs, “I can think of a few things.” She smirks at her, eyebrow raised, and it reminds Serena of another time, another conversation, another day when this happened, when their roles were reversed. _What would make you feel better?_

Serena decides this is as good a moment as any to strip off her scrub top, and watches, with a great deal of smugness, as Bernie’s eyes grow dark. Yeah, she’s still got it.

“I—” Bernie starts. “I, um—”

Serena is wearing a different bra today – simple, leopard print, normal clasp – and delights in the way that this (mostly) innocent article of clothing has succeeded in reducing Bernie, eloquent and educated, too smart for her own good, to a monosyllabic bumbler. Serena opens her locker, pulls out her camisole. “Hmm?” Turns back to her, lifts her arms up and draws the dark silk over her head, makes sure to push her chest out as she lets the material fall. “What are you saying?”

“I … have absolutely no idea,” Bernie says, voice low, and Serena grins. She should be expecting it, really, but fire still shoots straight through her when Bernie grabs her, spins her around and pushes her up against the bank of lockers. “If you were trying to distract me,” she growls into her ear, “then it’s working.”

“Mission accomplished,” Serena purrs, and pulls her in.

Horizontal was wonderful, was magical, but vertical is hardly less so: Bernie’s body pushing into hers, Bernie’s thighs on either side of her own, Bernie near-topless and kissing her, nails scratching down Serena’s back; Bernie’s skin – all that splendid skin – right there, right here, beneath her fingers. Serena takes it, takes all she can get, runs her hands wildly over the ridges of Bernie’s spine, across the flexing muscles, squeezes and strokes and scrapes and devours by touch. Bernie bites down on her shoulder and Serena throws her head back, gasps – rattling the door of the locker beside her; she might have a bruise tomorrow but doesn’t care, can’t care – and pulls her in as close as she can.

Bernie’s mouth is everywhere, her skin tingling where her tongue makes contact and then moves away: lips, neck, jawline, earlobe; everywhere, everything, not nearly enough at once. Bernie is wild and open; once released, she doesn’t hold back, and it is that knowledge that rockets Serena’s arousal from mild to half-desperate. That knowledge, that Bernie wants her so much that she’s willing to do this here, on the ward, where anyone could walk in at any time—

—Serena moans as Bernie’s hand slides around to her backside, cupping and stroking and squeezing as she whispers into Serena’s ear things like _beautiful_ and _I need you_ and _just wait ‘til I get you alone_ , and Serena is so, so wet, already, is drawing Bernie closer, shameless in her need to get some pressure, more pressure, when the pager, hard and square in Serena’s scrub trousers, starts to go off.

They break apart, Bernie gasping, Serena cursing the thing’s wretched, ill-timed existence, and soaks in the pleasure of having Bernie’s hot body pressing against her, chest heaving, for a few delicious moments before she gently pulls away and retrieves the offending piece of technology. “If this is Ric…” she mutters.

Bernie laughs, a ragged thing, and Serena’s stomach _rolls_ at the sound, at the sight of her kiss-red lips.

It isn’t Ric; it’s trauma. She’s needed. A moment later, Bernie’s pager sounds as well; they’re both needed. They gaze at each other, heat and longing and the slight aftertaste of laughing embarrassment at their combined lack of self-control.

“I know duty calls,” Serena says, exchanging her camisole for the scrub top she had so recently removed, “but I have never been sorrier for that fact than I am right now.”

“I hear that,” Bernie mutters. She is pulling on her own clean top, Serena already ahead of her and halfway out the door, when she calls out, “Serena, wait.” When she turns, Bernie says, “Come over to my place. Tonight.” Her voice is still so full of promise it makes Serena shiver. “We’ll have dinner.”

Serena smirks. “No, we won’t.”

Bernie smirks back. “No, we probably won’t. Come out for dinner, then. I’d like to take you out. Make up for … well, we’ve never been … that is, I … I’d been planning to ask you that before, anyhow. Just now.”

Serena watches her, sees nerves and affection and lust but no hint of deceit. “All right,” she hears herself saying. “I’d like that.” Then: “Actually…”

Bernie raises an eyebrow.

“Can we make it Friday instead?”

“Sure.” Bernie shrugs. “You got something on?”

“No, I…” Serena feels her cheeks heat, clears her throat. “Jason’s going to Alan’s on Friday.” As Bernie’s eyes crinkle in understanding, in poorly-suppressed delight, Serena adds, “For the weekend.”

Now there’s something else poorly-suppressed in there, too, but Bernie wrestles her expression back under control, re-clips her ID badge to the pocket of her trousers, and nods. “Friday it is, then.” She follows Serena out of the locker room, and as they stride towards a trauma bay already abuzz with activity, Bernie leans in and whispers, “Gives me time to prepare.”

Fifty-three hours to go. Not that she’s counting.


	6. Chapter 6

She’s almost grateful for the near-manic stress of the hours that get her through Thursday, though she and Bernie are working opposing shifts. Then Bernie arrives for the changeover and clocks on an hour early – “Had nothing to do at home,” says her mouth; “Wanted to see you,” say her eyes – and Serena takes one look at her in those wicked dark jeans, in that loose checked shirt, in that _coat_ , and thinks maybe it’s for the best that they’ve had time apart.

When she’s ready to leave, coat-clad, bag in hand, Bernie crowds her against the filing cabinet and kisses her, deep and hot and far too short. “Have a good day,” she says, smirking, when she pulls away.

Serena slaps her on the backside as she goes out the door, smiles at the sound of Bernie’s barking laugh. She heads out into the carpark, into the clear, crisp afternoon, and hums to herself as she strolls to her car. Her last coffee of the shift has yet to wear off, so she uses it to propel her to the destinations on her to-do list: supermarket, drycleaner, post office. Stops by Boots on the way home, stands in line for two minutes before she thinks about her legs and runs back to grab a new razor (hot pink and too expensive, but what the heck).

She goes home and takes advantage of the temporary quiet by blasting Mahler No. 1 as she irons a few blouses and then gets dinner prepped; doesn’t realise she’s been as good as dancing around the kitchen until she almost slips and falls into the door of the fridge.

She laughs at herself, blushing furiously in the private of her empty, music-filled house. She’s really farther gone than she’d thought.

*

Friday dawns wet and cold. In the early hours of the morning, Serena sits at the kitchen table, nursing a mug, and smiles at her nephew and the world. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” 

Around a mouthful of porridge, Jason says, “No.”

“Oh, come on, it isn’t so bad!”

“It’s raining and cold and there was frost on the grass when I woke up. The windscreen on your car is probably iced over, which means we will have to leave the house five minutes earlier than our usual time in order to defrost it. Why is that beautiful?”

Serena sighs, feeling good-natured and terribly patient. “It doesn’t hurt one to look for the beauty in all things, Jason.”

Jason stops chewing to stare at her. Then he swallows and says, “I believe your judgment is impaired because of your new relationship with Bernie.”

“My – Jason, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I recently learned some things about romantic relationships,” he says. He scrapes out the last of the porridge in his bowl and licks his spoon clean. “From Nurse Fletcher. He told me that irrational behaviour is a common symptom of love.” He eyes her intently. “You are acting irrationally, Auntie Serena.”

Serena takes a sip of tea, shakes her head. “Really, Jason, is it so irrational that I should enjoy a bit of rain?”

“Yes,” Jason says. “Usually, when it rains, you complain about how your shoes will be ruined, or how it will make your hair wavy, or how Bernie walks all over the office with muddy boots after she—”

“Yes, quite right, Jason, I remember.”

“See?” Jason says, satisfied. “You agree.”

“That’s not precisely what I—”

“You should eat faster,” Jason says. “We need to be going soon.”

Serena looks down at the single bite-square missing from her lone piece of toast, feels her stomach swoop for entirely unrelated reasons; feels jittery, quivery, simultaneously desperate and nervous to get to work. Her leg, she realises, is bouncing up and down – for how long?

This is ridiculous. What’s one rung lower than an F1? A _medical student_? God forbid.

She waits until Jason has gone to pack up his toiletries and then tosses the toast in the compost. She’ll go without.

*

She sees Bernie’s car pull in just as she and Jason are parking, so the three of them walk in, queue at Pulses, and grab the lift up to AAU together. Jason chatters away the whole time, regaling Bernie with all the interesting things he learned about toads last night (bless the BBC, Serena thinks, for their richly multifaceted programming), even after Sacha jumps into the lift with them just as the doors close.

“Morning, you three,” he says, and straightens his coffee cup before Serena has the chance to tell him it’s tilted at a worrisome angle. “Dreadful weather, isn’t it?”

Jason turns to Serena and prods her in the arm. “See?” he says. “Mr Levy knows.”

“Yes,” Serena says, in hopes that that will discourage him from talking. No luck. 

She can feel Bernie’s eyes on her, interested, and Bernie asks, “What does Mr Levy know?”

Sacha chuckles. “I wouldn’t mind hearing that myself, as a matter of fact.”

“Jason and I just have differing opinions on what constitutes pleasant weather, that’s all.” Serena smiles at them all benignly, doesn’t linger on Bernie, on the way she can practically see the cogs turning in her mind. “Nothing to get excited about.”

“But—” Jason starts.

“Oh, look,” Serena says, “I’m afraid we’re already here. Mr Levy,” she says, nodding, as she all but races off the lift. Jason bids them farewell to go and check-in with the other porter, and Bernie follows Serena, bemused, across the ward and into the office.

“What was that?” she asks. She sets her bag down on her desk and hangs up her coat, leans against the window to watch Serena do the same.

Serena sits down, busies herself with switching on her computer, with flicking through the contents of her in-tray. “What was what?”

“You and Jason,” Bernie says. “All that about the weather.” She walks over to Serena’s desk, perches on it. Serena watches her thigh muscles shift as she does, looks away again. “Serena?” she asks, softly, and at that, Serena can no longer resist looking up into her eyes.

She sighs. “This morning I was a little … chipper, shall we say. Jason chose to read that as unusual.”

Bernie drums her fingers along her jean-clad thigh. “I see. Any particular reason for your … chipperness?” Frowns. “Chipperism?”

Serena snorts. “I happen to have had a good sleep, that’s all.”

“Not to mention that it’s Friday,” Bernie says, sagely. “That’s reason enough to be chipper any old week.”

“Exactly!” Serena exclaims. “I wish you’d tell Jason that – he’s convinced I must have had some specific reason for my good mood. Something out of the ordinary.”

“Shocking,” she says, tutting. “The youth of today are so cynical.”

“Aren’t they just?” Serena leans back in her chair, crosses her right leg over her left. “I’m so glad you understand what I’m getting at.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.”

They gaze at each other warmly, no longer even attempting to hide their smiles, and then Bernie says, “You, ah, you look lovely, by the way.”

Serena smirks. “Buttering me up for something, are you, Ms Wolfe? You after one of my theatre slots?”

Bernie barks out a laugh and slides down from the desk, saunters off in a way that has to be deliberate. “You try to give a lady a compliment…” She turns back at the door, the line of her neck and spine making Serena tamp down on a small noise of longing she is exceedingly glad she manages to control. In a voice like silk, Bernie murmurs, “I’m going to change. See you soon.”

Seven and a half hours to go.

“By the way,” Bernie says, returning after a moment, a mess of blond hair poking into the room. “Our reservations are for 7pm. I hope that suits?”

Serena heart performs a little hop-skip-jump at the blend of shyness and confidence etched into Bernie’s face. “Suits me just fine,” she tells her, smiling. “Where are we going?”

“That you will learn, my dear Serena, in seven and a half hours.”

It isn’t an answer, but Serena still smirks. Nice to know she isn’t the only one counting.

*

Serena passes most of the rest of her shift and lunch with Jason expecting the red phone to ring, expecting a twelve-lorry pile-up on the A2 with dozens of casualties, expecting a sodding zombie apocalypse, and is genuinely surprised when five o’clock rolls around and the hospital has neither fallen down around their ears nor expelled any badly-made-up corpses from the morgue. She stands in front of the monitor, at the completed list of surgeries, and frowns.

“Something wrong?” Raf asks from behind her.

“Not exactly,” Serena says.

Raf raises an eyebrow. “You’re due to clock off, aren’t you?”

“Theoretically,” Serena says slowly.

“What are you waiting for, then?” Raf asks, laughing. “Get out of here while you can! I haven’t seen the day shift this quiet since—”

“—you know what, Raf? You’re right. Thank you.” She squeezes him on the forearm and takes off for the office.

“You’re welcome,” she hears him say behind her, confusion evident, and she shoots him a smile over her shoulder. That will have to suffice.

When she walks in, Bernie is already back in her street clothes and halfway through packing up her belongings. Serena sighs at the sight of the jeans – such very good, very well-thought-out jeans – and Bernie looks up and smiles. “Ah, good,” she says. “I’ve just clocked off and am therefore officially no longer visible to the naked eye, so I was thinking it might be wise for you to do the same before … what is it?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re—” Bernie gestures vaguely, “—looking at me strangely.”

Serena swallows down the sudden tightness in her chest that has come from the equally sudden memory of another night like this, when they had planned to have dinner, when their positions of right now were echoed but reversed: Bernie coming in as Serena was sorting her things, Serena oblivious and tingling with nervous excitement for the evening ahead – for the night – until Bernie walked in with those dead eyes, that shell-shocked look, and stuttered out that she was leaving.

( _I’ve accepted the secondment._ ) 

Serena has played the moment over and over again in her mind so many times that sometimes, she is no longer sure if her memories are even real; if she can even still recall things the way they actually happened, or if her own mind has overwritten it into a fantasy, into a lie, into something infinitely better or worse than it was.

“Serena?”

She only realises she’s teared up when Bernie’s face falls, eyes wide and worried, and has crossed the room in two long strides and taken Serena gently by the shoulders, searching her face.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

There is a moment when she thinks about not telling her, about shaking this off as stupid, as hormonal, as the aftereffect of a too-long week, but then she steels herself with the memory of the long months she spent alone and heartbroken, abandoned to the dubious honour of central subject of hospital gossip, and she knows she cannot protect Bernie from the truth of this. If it hurts her, it hurts her, but if they are to have any chance of making this relationship work, then it isn’t going to be because Serena glossed over her failings, forgiving her the moment she caught sight of her newly-dyed hair, pushing down her own right to emotion and expression and encouraging resentment to breed.

She will allow Bernie to comfort her, but she will not say sorry.

“I’m all right,” she murmurs. “Just got hit with an unfortunate memory.”

Bernie continues to watch her, but Serena feels her fingers flex against her shoulders, and she says, “The night I left. The night I ran off.”

Well, she isn’t called brilliant for nothing.

“It does bear some similarities, doesn’t it?”

Bernie nods miserably, jaw tight. “It does.” She has that look on her face like she wants to apologise, like she knows she needs to but doesn’t quite know how to form the words; like she’s afraid of what will happen if she does. “Do you—” she swallows, takes her hands off Serena’s shoulders and, after a hesitant moment, moves to take hers instead. “If you’d prefer to do something else, not go to the restaurant, then I—we could—we could, I mean. Not do it. Or do it. Whatever you want.”

Serena, despite herself, softens a little at this bumbling attempt at conciliation, at least internally. Externally, she just says, “Nice try, Ms Wolfe, but you aren’t getting out of our date that easily.”

Bernie looks mildly panicked. Serena won’t pretend not to get a little gratification from that. “No, Serena, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to get out of it, I promise,” she says, sincerity bright in her eyes. “I want to do this. Very much. I just didn’t want to push you into anything if you … weren’t in the mood.”

“That’s kind of you,” Serena says, squeezing Bernie’s hands. “And I happen to agree with you—we should certainly take the opportunity to get out of here now before something pops up to delay us.

“Good,” Bernie says. She nods once, matter-of-fact, but Serena can see the relief in her eyes.

“What should we do, then?” Bernie asks, when they have, miraculously, made it out the hospital doors, across the pavement, and into the car. She turns to Serena, hand on the steering wheel. “When I made the reservations, I never imagined we’d actually be out of the hospital at five sharp. Drink somewhere?”

Serena lets out a laughing puff of breath. “Lord, yes.”

Bernie chuckles, low in her throat, reaches over to pat Serena’s thigh. “I would never be so cruel as to make you wait until after 7pm for Shiraz.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Serena says, without thinking, but Bernie’s blush and shy, pleased sideways glance make the slip well worth it.

“The Ox and Rose?” Bernie asks, when they are waiting to turn onto the main road.

“I’ve not been there in years,” Serena says, smiling over at her. “That sounds lovely.”

“Good,” Bernie says. “That should significantly reduce our chances of running into any unwanted colleagues.” Then, hurriedly, “Which is not to say I’m embarrassed, or trying to, to hide anything, I just—”

“I know what you meant.” Now Serena leans over and pats _her_ thigh – well, strokes it, rather … squeezes it … lingers until Bernie says, gruffly, “Best let me concentrate.”

“Terribly sorry.” Serena pulls away, but can’t stop smirking. Wait ‘til Bernie finds out what she’s researched.


	7. Chapter 7

The Ox and Rose is ten miles out of Holby, on the eastern rim of Wyvern, and it is almost exactly as Serena remembers: small and cosy, dark enough to be romantic but not enough to be dank, and decorated in a loving if somewhat eclectic manner that always succeeds in making her smile. She’d come here once or twice with Sian in her first year at Holby, but after Sian moved into the city, it hadn’t made sense for either of them to drive out here when they could just meet at Serena’s local. Serena doesn’t ask how Bernie knows the place, but it’s evident that the place knows her, as well.

A bartender who can’t be much older than twelve positively lights up when he catches sight of them – of Bernie, rather. “Major Wolfe!” he exclaims, half-falling over the bar to shake her hand. “How jolly good to see you again!”

Bernie’s returning platitudes are enough to secure them a drink on the house and a hint at the best spot to sit; she accepts both with an easy smile that has the bartender blushing and Serena trying and failing not to laugh.

Armed with free alcohol, they slide into opposite sides of the booth and Bernie pulls out her lighter to ignite the lone candle between them. “There,” she says, with a grin, when the flame flickers into existence. “Perfect.”

“I will reluctantly acknowledge that in this instance, your smoking does appear to have had its use. Singular.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Bernie says.

Serena wrinkles her nose. “I won’t.” She holds up her glass, smiles. “To us, finally getting here.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Bernie murmurs, eyes soft. “To us.”

Bernie sticks to the one glass of white because they have to get back to Holby for dinner, but she scores Serena another free Shiraz and then spends half the drive apologising for not having paid. “I was prepared to,” she insists, in seemingly honest bewilderment. “I even had my wallet out, ready, when … I don’t know why …” 

“Really?” Serena asks. “Do you really not know?”

Bernie sighs. “I’m not—why, Serena, really? I’m a washed-up, middle-aged ex-soldier with dyed blond hair. Why would that...?” But she trails off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is this: I am, in fact, both willing and equipped to invite you out and then take care of the bill. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“You can’t promise that.” Serena laughs, swivels in the passenger seat to face her. “What if the next waiter is just another poor, helpless youth unable to resist the legendary charms of Ms Berenice Wolfe?”

“Oh, stop it,” Bernie grumbles. “I can promise it, and I will. I will pay for this meal even if I have to be rude to the staff to do it.”

Serena laughs again at the ridiculousness of the image, of the conversation, and then says, “It does, you know.” Bernie looks over at her, eyes a question. “Matter,” she says. “I’m sorry you see yourself that way, Bernie. It’s certainly not how I see you.” The tension is thickening, emotionally charged, until Serena breaks it by saying, “Well, apart from the hair-dye. That I noticed. When did you have time to do that in Ukraine?”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

Serena raises an eyebrow. “Hot young colleague? Kiev City Hospital hair salon?”

“No,” she answers, snorting. “It’s embarrassing. You’ll laugh at me.”

“I shan’t.”

Bernie shoots her a look before turning back to the road. “If you must know, I … I did it at the airport. In the airport loo, to be precise.”

Serena’s mouth drops open. “ _What_?”

“See!”

“I’m not laughing!” She reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind Bernie’s ear, touches the colour with new awareness. “I’m not. Did you really?” Bernie nods. “Whyever for?”

Bernie makes a self-deprecating noise, almost a groan. “Because I panicked. Worried. Wanted to look my best for … for you.”

Serena is gazing at her in astonishment, but she’s touched; this action is precisely the insane sort of thing she might expect from Bernie, the kind of insanity that is also somehow sweet. Chaotic and spontaneous and unnecessary, but sweet just the same. “Well, I like it,” she murmurs. “But I confess I’d have been glad to see you even if you’d turned up grey. Or with a Mohawk. Or bald.”

“Oh,” Bernie says, wincing, “don’t think that last one would have been much fun in Ukraine in winter.”

“Probably not.” Her hand lingers on Bernie’s hair, stroking its softness, and then she admits, “I bought that blouse because of you. Same reason.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Bernie pulls into a side street, drives slowly until she finds a free spot and parks. Turns off the engine, turns to Serena.

“You weren’t the only one who wanted to look her best,” Serena says.

Bernie gazes at her, eyes wide and dark in the light from the streetlamp, and leans across the gearstick – Serena meets her halfway, hands gripping and searching, Bernie’s soft moans in the warm, confined space of the car spurring her on.

“We should stop,” Serena gasps, even as she bares her throat to Bernie’s adventurous tongue. “If we want to eat.”

“I’m quite happy,” Bernie says, around messy kisses, “with … what I’m … eating now.”

Breath shallow, Serena mutters, “That makes two of us.” She pulls Bernie’s head up from her chest, looks into her eyes. “But I’d very much like to do this properly, in a way that involves you and me and a bed and far fewer clothes.”

Bernie licks her lips – it’s almost Serena’s last straw – and nods. “Right, yes. I’m in favour of … all that.” She runs her fingers through her hair, swipes a hand across her mouth. “Right,” she says again. “Dinner. There was a reason we didn’t want to do this at home, wasn’t there?”

A deliberate inch of space between them, they walk into the well-lit, well-patronised restaurant, which is an Indian Serena has never been to before but has heard good things about.

“I hope it’s all right,” Bernie murmurs, as they hang up their coats. “I normally would have double-checked, but I remember you mentioning something about loving spicy food, so I thought this was likely a safe bet.”

“It’s fabulous,” Serena says, beaming at her, finding her hand and giving it a squeeze. “Thank you. I’ve been wanting to come here for months and never quite got around to it.”

Bernie does an awfully endearing job of trying to cover up her smile.

The food is good. Perhaps not the best she’s ever had, but the company and the atmosphere and the mere fact that they’re here, together, after so long, Bernie’s leg resting firm and warm against hers beneath the table, qualify it for just about the best _dinner date_ she’s ever had.

Secondment notwithstanding, they have fallen back with relative speed into the easy, compatible rhythm that has characterised their friendship from the start. Underlying it is still that delicious chemistry, bubbling and sizzling all the more for the fact that it’s now on the surface, acknowledged and unrepressed, and it is a truly enjoyable pastime to be allowed to flirt with Bernie, to realise it’s safe to relinquish the once-pervasive concern that one of them will go too far, will say too much, will inadvertently make the other uncomfortable. This time, tonight, they are on the same page about what they want, about where this is going, and Serena finds herself relaxing more and more – the more Bernie’s eyes start to burn – and allowing herself the pleasure of deepening a romance with someone she already knows so well.

They are passing rice between them, sharing their curries – they both like it hot, Serena thinks, with a smirk; an excellent sign – and as she watches Bernie stab a fork into a piece of lamb, she twirls her wine glass in her fingers and says, “What was it you wanted to talk about tonight?”

Bernie has just taken a bite, and she gives Serena a comically surprised look before she swallows, wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Uh,” she says. “What?”

“In the office, the other day,” Serena says. “You wanted to—”

“Yes,” Bernie says. She fidgets a little with her napkin, places it back on her lap. Takes a sip of Kashmiri kava. “I wanted to…” she glances around, but there is no one within listening-vicinity; the tables are set up in a thoughtful, cosy arrangement that allows for relative solitude. Bernie and Serena are tucked over in a warm, private corner, partially obscured by a large fern, and Serena finds herself wondering if Bernie requested this table on purpose. Is glad if she did.

Bernie lowers her voice when she continues, anyhow, leans forward a little. “I wanted to ask you if … that is, how you … what your opinion is on … God,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Words might help, mightn’t they?”

Her right hand is a fist on the tablecloth, and Serena doesn’t even think before she stretches out her own to cover it. Bernie looks up, surprise in her eyes, but immediately brushes her thumb against Serena’s. “What I’m trying to say is, are you … how are you feeling about the whole … Sapphic development?”

Serena snorts at the wording, but softens when she registers Bernie’s embarrassment. “I’m fine,” she answers, gently. She kicks a shoe off, slides her stockinged foot against Bernie’s calf with intent. “One might even be persuaded to say _enthused_.”

“I confess I had noticed the enthusiasm,” Bernie murmurs. Serena grins. “But I wanted to ask all the same. What happened between us was all so, so sudden, and then I buggered off and didn’t … well, I wasn’t there for you, was I?” The bitterness in her voice is impossible to miss. “I left you to manage all that on your own, and I know it’s … well, this sort of, of realisation isn’t always easy.”

Understatement of the century, but Serena resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Raf was there,” she says, after a moment. “He was kind.” She still has Bernie’s hand, doesn’t let it go when Bernie moves to pull away. “Listen, Bernie: it happened. We can’t change it. You’ve apologised, I’ve accepted it.” She waits until Bernie raises her eyes and then says, “Just don’t do it again.” She’d meant it as a joke, to lighten the mood, but when it comes out more seriously than she’d expected, she isn’t sorry.

Bernie nods, several times, and then turns her hand over to grip Serena’s. “I won’t,” she says. 

“If you want to,” Serena murmurs, “that’s okay. It’s allowed. People get scared and I can accept that. It may well yet happen to me. Just … please promise me that if it does happen, you’ll try to talk to me instead of exiling yourself to some foreign land? And I’ll do the same?” She tilts her head, gives her a smile. “I have been known to be reasonable, on occasion.”

It takes Bernie a long moment to respond, and when she does, her voice is rough and her eyes a little too bright. She swallows once, twice, and then nods. “I promise,” she says. It’s the truest, rawest thing Serena has ever heard her say. “I promise.”

“Good,” Serena says. She drains the last of her wine and sets the glass back down on the table, pretends not to notice Bernie’s rapid blinking. “Now that’s sorted, how about you take me home and I show you how very much on board I am with … how did you phrase it, this Sapphic development?” 

Bernie’s cheeks go red as she nearly spits out a mouthful of tea. “Dear _God_ , Serena.”

Serena smirks. “Problem?”

“That was just a bit…” 

“Blunt?” Serena asks. She leans forward on her elbows. “Unsubtle? Pointed?” She pitches her voice low and says, “I am a woman who knows what I want, Berenice Wolfe, and I want you. I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you agree?”

Bernie’s eyes are wild, colour still high in her cheeks, and she coughs once before saying weakly, “I’ll just get the bill.”

*

The drive back to Serena’s is possibly the longest of her life. It’s longer than the time she drove to Cambridge to see Elinor’s musical (though it isn’t quite as long as the musical itself). It’s certainly longer than the time she and her roommate from Cambridge – the other Cambridge – drove across America on a whim to visit L.A. It’s maybe even longer than the time she flew to New Zealand, but somehow, it does end, and Bernie pulls up outside the house, slides her car into park with shaking fingers.

Serena takes her hand, knots their fingers together. “No need to be nervous,” she murmurs. “I may not have done this before, but I can promise I researched _thoroughly_ while you were away. I like to be prepared, you know.”

Bernie shoots a sharp look at her, almost a warning, and her mouth drops open. “Serena—”

“Yes?” Serena asks innocently. 

“Get inside. Right now.”

Serena lets go of her hand and mock-salutes her with the other. “As you like, Major.”

Bravado aside, she is so full of nervous energy that she fumbles with the lock for almost thirty seconds, though that may also have something to do with the fact that Bernie is crowded behind her, the warmth of her front pressing into Serena’s back, her lips already at work on Serena’s neck. She gets them in, finally, and has barely had time to toss her keys aside before she is being grabbed and spun around, coat stripped from her shoulders – tossed over the cabinet beside them rather than onto the floor, she’s astonished to note – and pushed up against the door. And _oh_ , forget supply cupboards, forget her numerous and richly varied fantasies: this, the two of them here and free and open and willing, alone, is so much better than any of that. It’s so much better.

“I’d offer you a nightcap,” Serena says, “but—”

“—I don’t want one,” Bernie hisses, nipping at her throat when Serena pulls her head down.

“Just as well,” she says, laughing, “as I’m fairly sure I only have lighter fluid.”

Bernie huffs out a laugh and then kisses her, hot and wet and open-mouthed, right away, no finesse, no build-up – well, who’s Serena kidding, they have been building up to this for months on end. She moans beneath Bernie’s touch, welcomes the glorious feeling of Bernie’s ever-cool hands sliding beneath her blouse, beneath her camisole, and grasping at her like she’s the only thing Bernie needs to survive. 

They are forced to stop to rid themselves of the inconvenient accessories of daily life – bags, shoes, scarves, Bernie’s coat – and leave them in a hasty pile by the door; it’s locked, anyway, and Serena sure as hell intends to keep it that way. God, she intends to keep Bernie in bed for the next thirty-six hours straight. Might occasionally let her out to fetch some Shiraz.

She mentions this, casually, as Bernie does her best to manoeuvre them up the stairs whilst avoiding the creation of unsightly bruises or broken picture frames, and Bernie, in response, gasps out something ragged and unintelligible and then actually _picks her up_. Serena might find it undignified, but she is too busy being floored by both the look in Bernie’s eyes and the fact that she has a girlfriend (because she does, doesn’t she?) who is strong enough to carry her to the bedroom. Who wants to. Who does. 

“This can’t be good for your back,” Serena says, laughing, turning her head to lick a line up Bernie’s neck.

“There are more important things,” Bernie mumbles, smiling at her, and Serena feels her whole heart swelling so large with happiness that she believes, all medical evidence to the contrary, that it might just burst. Bernie puts her down at the door to the bedroom and they lose a few more minutes to fevered snogging against it; Bernie’s checked shirt and singlet end up hanging over the banister, and Serena is back down to her bra and trousers, yet again, when Bernie finally pulls back. She extracts her fingers from Serena’s hair and asks, gruffly, “Shall I take you to bed, Ms Campbell?”

Serena slides her hand out from its snug position down the back of Bernie’s jeans and says, “Why, Ms Wolfe, I thought you’d never ask.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your lovely feedback and kudos on this one - you are all delightful and it's been heaps of fun!

This time, there is no awkwardness when they are standing beside the bed; they are both far too keyed up for the possibility of self-consciousness to even enter into the equation. Bernie, having been granted permission to get Serena naked, is as focused on and committed to the task as she is with everything that ranks of importance to her, and Serena finds her breath quickening from the way that Bernie is looking at her alone. She is tender and reverent and disbelieving, oh so slow, her fingers running gently down Serena’s shoulders and arms, over her breasts, across her stomach and hips and backside, back up her thighs. Serena allows it, standing there, _throbbing_ , fingers clenched with a desperate need she’s never felt before, and when Bernie glances back up at her, eyes hot and dark, Serena huffs out, “Much as I appreciate the sentiment, Bernie, I am rapidly losing patience here.”

“Right you are, then.” Bernie steps in impossibly closer and pushes her onto the mattress – a tall, plush, glorious gift from on high, of course, so falling into it is like falling into a giant marshmallow. Serena bounces, grins; Bernie smirks. Then she says, “It would do you good to learn a bit of patience,” and Serena splutters with indignation until she registers the look on Bernie’s face.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that, Berenice—”

Bernie climbs over her and hovers, bodies just touching. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Serena doesn’t answer, just grabs Bernie forcibly by the shoulders and pulls her down into a kiss, moans loud and abandoned, relishes the fact that she can scream the house down, if she wants to, and there’s no one but her and Bernie to hear. While Bernie is kissing her way down Serena’s chest, Serena takes advantage of her occupation to flip them over, pins Bernie’s arms against her sides with a grin.

“Hey,” Bernie says. “I wanted to—”

“I know you did,” Serena purrs, “and I shall be very much inclined to allow you to continue, but first, Bernie darling, I simply _must_ get rid of these jeans.”

Bernie shakes her head, rakes her nails through Serena’s hair, making her groan. “And here’s me thinking you liked them.”

“Wherever did you get that impression?”

“Just a hunch,” Bernie says, smirking.

Serena pats her hip. “Help me out, would you?” And as Bernie obediently raises her hips, enabling Serena to peel the material off her, Serena thinks this might just be her favourite Friday ever. Bernie is wearing simple black knickers with a lace trim, and Serena wonders, mouth watering, if she picked them out deliberately – would Bernie wear lacy knickers on a normal day? Under scrubs? Her heart pounds at the thought – and she devours the skin, the muscle, the perfect arrangement of limbs that is slowly exposed to her hungry eyes.

“Oh, Bernie,” she murmurs, pushing the jeans, along with Bernie’s mismatched socks, onto the floor and tracing a finger over the jut of her hipbone. “You’re even more gorgeous than I imagined, and I imagined.” She wants to hook her fingers into the elastic of those knickers and pull them down, toss them off, sling Bernie’s leg across her shoulder and lower her head. She wants to dip her tongue into Bernie’s wetness, already heart-stoppingly visible through the dark cotton, and never stop; she wants to—

—but she doesn’t get to finish the thought, let alone do it, because Bernie has hauled her back up the bed to her level and is making short work of her own trousers. They end up on the floor, too, and Bernie licks her lips, murmuring promises, as she rolls Serena’s sheer black stockings down her legs and off. 

It seems she likes Serena’s lingerie. Serena grins at the heated look of shock on her face as she takes in satin and lace, deep and red against pale skin, and stutters out, “Serena, I … I … _oh_.” Serena isn’t wild about all of her body: her stomach has long since lost its youthful tautness; her hips are perhaps a little fleshier than she’d like them to be; and she has cellulite on the backs of her thighs that she usually just tries to forget. But the way Bernie is looking at her, she’d think she was still the way she was in the prime of her life; faded stretch marks vanished beneath the heat of Bernie’s gaze, belly and breasts made pert and perfect again.

She certainly feels that she is exactly as she ought to be. That she couldn’t, shouldn’t be any different. It isn’t a feeling she’s ever had before, in bed, and with a woman like this … she pulls Bernie down and kisses her furiously, infuses it with all the unspoken thrill and joy and gratitude that comes of being here, in this situation, with exactly the right person at exactly the right time, breaks away only when breathing becomes a challenge.

Bernie barely allows that to stop her, rumbles out a request to travel on southwards that Serena enthusiastically approves, and then Bernie is reaching around her back with one hand to unsnap her bra, is drawing it over her shoulders and off. She takes a moment to gaze at Serena’s breasts before she touches, fingers gentle as they cup the weight, brush over her nipples, and Serena hisses and arches into her palm, less from the contact itself than the sense of completion, of utter relief.

Serena hooks a leg up over Bernie’s hip and pushes up into her, almost without thought, and Bernie groans, grinds her hips onto Serena’s leg in response. “Bernie,” she gasps, “Bernie.” She doesn’t know what she was trying to say, if anything, but Bernie replies by dipping her head and covering Serena’s entire nipple with her hot, hot mouth, licking gently, experimentally, and then, when she has established that Serena is amenable to pressure, sucking it in, flicking it with her tongue.

Serena’s breasts aren’t normally so sensitive – the fallout of breastfeeding, she’s always suspected – but right now, her entire body is tingling with want, and she feels every wet stroke of Bernie’s tongue, every brush of her lips on the one, every touch of her fingers on the other nipple like fire. She cries out, can’t help canting her hips up into Bernie’s stomach, can’t help reaching around to hold Bernie’s head in place as she licks and sucks and laves and generally drives Serena mad. Just as Serena doesn’t think she can take any more, than she’ll die or she’ll come just from this zeroed-in contact, Bernie switches to the other breast, leaves the first throbbing and exposed to the cool of the air: Serena reaches up and squeezes the abandoned one herself, kneading desperately as Bernie works on the other, and Bernie growls when she realises what she’s doing.

“Oh, Serena,” she hears, mumbled against her skin. “Serena, you’re … there are no words for what you are. For how perfect.”

She doesn’t even know if Bernie realises she’s talking, but the words flood her with heat, with moisture. “Bernie,” she gasps, drawing her head gently up, nearly groaning at the sight of glazed-over eyes. “I need you.”

Bernie looks at her, smiles; says, “You have me,” very gently, before she lowers her head and kisses her way down Serena’s stomach in earnest. She feels as though no inch is left uncovered, and she is practically writhing by the time Bernie dips her tongue in and out of Serena’s navel and then settles between her legs, grinning up at her. “Move up a little, would you? I’m about to fall off the bed.” 

Serena snorts out a laugh and does as she’s bidden, settles against her pillows and watches, literally dripping with lust, as Bernie leans up on her elbows, strokes her now-warm fingers up and down Serena’s thighs, torturously slow. Serena wriggles, whines, “Bernie…” and rolls her eyes at Bernie’s smug look. Insufferable woman. Serena should really—

—oh _God_. Bernie is brushing her thumb down Serena’s centre, over her knickers, and Serena grips her shoulder. “Bernie,” she says, warningly, but Bernie ignores her: takes two fingers this time and traces the same path, exploring damp fabric Serena wishes were anywhere else but on her body. When Serena digs her nails into Bernie’s shoulder, Bernie laughs, turns to kiss her hand in apology.

“Fine,” she murmurs, “I’ll stop teasing.”

“Bloody right you will,” Serena mutters, but she doesn’t have room for breath for much longer, because right after, Bernie hooks her thumbs into Serena’s knickers and slowly, slowly, draws them down. She disposes of them, carelessly, and Serena is hard-pressed not to arch her hips up right away. She grips at Bernie’s shoulder with one hand, the sheets with the other, and forces herself to breathe as Bernie traces a finger along the inside of her thigh, then lifts the thigh over her shoulder and glances up.

“All right?” she asks, softly, and Serena nods tightly. Doesn’t trust herself to say anything else; the sight of Bernie’s big brown eyes looking up at her from between her legs is…

‘Stuff of fantasy’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“You’re beautiful,” Bernie murmurs, and then lowers her head. The first stroke of her tongue is gentle – testing the waters, Serena thinks hysterically – a long swipe from bottom to top, pulling away before she can reach her clit. Serena lets out a sound she can’t find a word for and Bernie does it again: firmer, this time, more certain. She finds a rhythm, separates her lips gently to slip her tongue inside, licking at her, leisurely, like she’d rather be nowhere else in the world but here, doing this. Bernie licks and licks and moans against her, making her shudder, and Serena wonders if maybe it isn’t true.

Two of Bernie’s fingers inside her, moving with ever-increasing intensity, curling in deep and hot and knowing; Bernie’s lips and tongue on her clit, licking around it, too softly, until Serena is writhing against the bed, gasping and swearing and threatening Bernie’s life if she _doesn’t just_ \--

—until finally, Bernie sucks down in earnest, no holds barred, and Serena is coming and coming and coming, joyous and out of this world, with more abandon than ever before, Bernie’s fingers inside her and tongue against her all the time, still moving, still lapping, until she’s too sensitive to take any more and she squeezes her muscles together; Bernie slips out of her, slow, pressing a final kiss to her clit as she does.

Serena is splayed against her incredible pillows, spent and panting, trying to remember how to move. When muscle memory finally kicks in, she pats a limp hand onto Bernie’s head, into the knotted mess of her hair, and smiles lazily when Bernie looks up at her. Bernie is resting her chin against Serena’s thigh and is smiling; not smug, as Serena might have expected – as would be deserved, after that performance – but almost _shyly_ , and, Serena realises with a pang, more content than she’s ever seen her.

She strokes Bernie’s hair, wants to say something meaningful and poignant and maybe clever, but all she manages is, “Ohhh.”

Bernie hides a grin in Serena’s skin, but not well enough for Serena not to see it. Bernie shifts up her body, leans down to kiss her, and Serena moans a little at the taste of herself on Bernie’s lips, at the thought of what Bernie has just done…

Serena, without ceremony, slides out from under Bernie’s arm to move above her, skin to skin, and palms Bernie’s breasts through her bra. “This,” Serena says, surprised at the roughness of her own voice, “is absolutely unacceptable, Ms Wolfe.”

Bernie hands are on Serena’s hips, are running up her back and down her backside. “You don’t like my bra?” she asks.

Serena sticks out her tongue. “I can’t fault it,” Serena says, “except for the fact that it’s still on you and I want it off.”

Bernie grins and reaches around, undoes it herself, tosses it aside. “There,” she says, with a flourish. “Problem solved.”

“Excellent,” Serena says, and leans down to lick her right nipple. Bernie gasps, spasms, and Serena looks up in surprise.

“Sorry,” Bernie mutters, embarrassed. “I’m rather … sensitive, there.”

Serena forces herself to squash down her inappropriate disappointment and says, “Shall I pass them by?”

“No!” Bernie exclaims, so violently that Serena has to smirk. “No,” she says, laughing, “not necessary. Just … be gentle? I have, uh … high body tension.”

 _No kidding_ , Serena thinks, but doesn’t say. She just nods, licks her lips and murmurs, “Just let me know if it’s too much,” and brings her mouth back to Bernie’s breasts – so lovely, so soft, so small; so different to her own – to caress gently, tongue exploring with soft licks and a hint of pressure until Bernie relaxes, until her arousal builds and with it her desire for a little more pressure.

Even in the throes of passion, she never likes it rough, but it is the most delicious sort of challenge for Serena to regulate the force of her own desire to match what Bernie likes; it is a reward in itself when she hears Bernie cry out, rake her nails down Serena’s back in encouragement.

Serena likes breasts. She’d never thought about it much before, but now that she has, she knows she likes them – she’s always liked her own, but she _loves_ Bernie’s. Maybe it’s because they’re smaller, but she loves the way she can fit all that warm flesh in the palm of her hand at once, the way Bernie’s small rosy nipples respond so easily and extremely to her touch.

She takes her time, cataloguing information and senses, burning the experience into her memory – her first experience of sex with a woman, somehow less impressive than it also being her first experience of Bernie. Her attentions to Bernie have made her grow wet again, and she strains herself against the overwhelming desire to grind her hips into the sheets. This is something new to her, too: that bringing someone else pleasure should cause her so very much pleasure herself, but that’s how it is. Bernie’s every motion, every sound, every open-mouthed, closed-eyed look, is almost more than Serena can bear, and she finds herself grinning fiercely around the breast in her mouth, simply because she’s having _so much fun_.

She can feel Bernie’s desperation building and takes pity on her, can’t pretend her own desire to see Bernie fall apart isn’t a factor in moving things along. Bernie’s knickers are soaked when she reaches them (via a path of kisses down Bernie’s scar, Bernie’s gorgeous body, broken and sewed back together again and perfect), and she licks experimentally over the material and is rewarded by Bernie bucking up into her face. “Sorry,” Bernie gasps, but Serena just grins and does it again.

“ _God_ , Serena,” Bernie hisses. “You should be … be careful …”

“Or I won’t know what I’ve let loose?” Serena teases, and when Bernie looks down at her guiltily, she pats her hip. “I can take it, Bernie. I promise. You don’t have to hide with me.”

Bernie nods, eyes shy, and then stutters out something that Serena can’t hear. Serena strokes a finger down the path her tongue had just followed. “Hmm?” she asks. “What did you say?”

Bernie sighs and says, a bit louder, “May I … may I pull your hair?”

“You may,” Serena says. 

“You’ll … you’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“I will,” Serena says. “Though you can’t do much wrong, I suspect. I don’t have a lot of hair.”

Bernie laughs, a bit broken, but nods. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Serena tugs Bernie’s knickers down her body and kicks them away. “If you hadn’t noticed, I happen to like a bit of woman-handling.” And with that, she slips a finger into Bernie’s wet, waiting heat. Research aside, Serena has one of these herself, and she knows that the slickness she’s meeting right now is … _wow_. Is something special. Her finger slides in so easily that she immediately adds another, pushes in deep until Bernie groans out a word like that sounds vaguely like Serena’s name and her fingers grip, as promised, into her hair.

Serena has researched, had read articles and diagrams, has practiced extensively on herself – the best subject – and she bites her lip and concentrates on curling her fingers just right, on locating something she knows is not a myth because she’s found it herself (once) (twice) (several times), with precisely this scenario in mind.

When Bernie nearly jumps into the air and releases a stream of expletives -- some in Ukrainian, no less – Serena suspects she may have found her target. She brushes over the spot again, feels its texture, does it again, then slides her thumb along the side of Bernie’s clit and Bernie actually _sobs_ , knots her fingers into Serena’s short hair and tugs. 

It doesn’t take long. Direct pressure on Bernie’s clit is too much, so Serena stays where she is, fingers rhythmic inside her, thumb sliding against her, barely there, until she feels Bernie’s muscles clench around her fingers and Bernie’s chest arches up against her mouth.

Serena hardly notices how hard she’s been pulling her hair until Bernie releases it with a murmured apology. Serena doesn’t slip her fingers out until Bernie has come down; only then does she lick her way up Bernie’s body to settle against her, slinging a leg over her hip. There’s wetness everywhere; the next round will have to happen on the left side of the bed.

Bernie lifts a still-fragrant hand and caresses Serena’s cheek, brushes her thumb over her lips and then laughs, a joyous sound that Serena has rarely heard before. “You are incredible,” Bernie says. “But pray tell me, Ms Campbell, if there was really no woman in Stepney, how did you…” she trails off, shakes her head. “You’re incredible,” she says again, and Serena is hard-pressed not to preen. She is used to excelling.

“I’m a quick study,” Serena says, grins when Bernie raises an eyebrow. She runs a finger down Bernie’s chest, over the tops of her breasts, just because. “As I said, I did some research.”

“With someone?” Bernie asks, lightly, and Serena feels her eyes widen.

“No,” she says, and chuckles. “I mean on the internet.”

“On the … you looked up lesbian sex?”

“Of course I did,” Serena says. “I wanted to be good at it, didn’t I?”

Bernie rolls her over and covers Serena’s body with her own, everything flush, skin warm; Serena hums, squirms delightedly beneath her. “Are you serious?” Bernie asks, gravelly.

Serena cocks an eyebrow. “Always.”

“And what precisely did this research entail?” Bernie asks. She kisses Serena, long and lingering. “I would very much like to know.”

“I’m sure you would.” Serena smirks, squirms again; revels in Bernie’s groan. “It consisted mainly of literature,” she says, conversationally. “I visited a few websites dedicated to the topic of how women can most expediently express their affection for one another and dutifully took notes, of course. I read some erotic fiction, but most of that was ghastly and unrealistic considering we neither of us are professional gymnasts. It gave me the idea, though.”

“Do go on,” Bernie murmurs, and Serena feels a finger slip into her, still sensitive but already wet again. She cants her hips and Bernie adds another. 

“I … I also watched a few films,” she tells her, breathy. Bernie thrusts into her harder and Serena gasps, pushes down to meet her. “ _Carol_ ,” she says. “From last year. An old one called _Bound_ , that was … mmmm, yes, Bernie … that was … engaging.” Bernie starts teasing her clit, flicking it and then moving back, and Serena grabs at her in an effort to make her increase the contact. “I watched a bit of porn, too, but that wasn’t my cup of tea. Too many fake boobs, not enough hair. I prefer ... natural women.”

Bernie fingers spasm at that: Serena feels it deep inside her and moans, smirks at the gobsmacked expression on Bernie’s face.

“I’d have happily watched it with you,” Serena says, silkily, “but you weren’t here.”

At that, Bernie growls; thumbs hard at her clit, curls her fingers, and sends Serena over the edge. Doesn’t leave her until the waves have subsided and they can both breathe again. They kiss, languorous and wet, and when they pull apart, Bernie is shaking her head. “Just when I think I know you,” she murmurs, “you go and surprise me again.”

Serena grins. “That’s just as it should be, isn’t it?”

Bernie laughs. “I suppose it is.”

“There are a couple of things I’d still like to try,” Serena tells her, after a moment. “In the interest of expanding my knowledge as best I can.”

Bernie swallows, grips Serena’s hip where she’s been stroking. “Oh?”

Serena leans in and sucks a soft earlobe into her mouth. “I’d like to taste you, for one thing. Now. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Bernie croaks. “Yes, I, I would.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

Serena shuffles down her body and gets to work.

*

Later, much later, several hours and intermittent glasses of Shiraz later, Bernie turns to Serena, lying in her arms. “You all right?” she asks.

Serena laughs. “I dare say so,” she says. “Are you?”

“Never been better,” Bernie says. “You don’t…”

She feels Bernie hesitate, shifts onto her elbow to glance down at her. “What?”

“Women,” Bernie blurts. “It’s … you’re okay? With … with all of it?”

Serena wants to laugh – she’s had her face buried in Bernie’s wet heat, had Bernie’s arousal all over her lips, has made Bernie come six times in the last several hours – but she sees the underlying fear in the question, sees the necessity of answering it with a straight face. “I was a bit nervous about our first time together,” she murmurs. She dances her fingers along Bernie’s neck, down her chest, over her scar. “I thought I would like it, but…” Bernie waits patiently, eyes on hers, and Serena gives her a wicked smile. “What I didn’t expect was that I would _love_ it.”

Bernie breathes a sigh of relief that is almost a laugh.

“I don’t know how I’d identify myself,” she goes on, shrugging. “Bisexual, I suppose, though I can’t say it matters to me in the slightest. What matters is us, you and me, here, getting on like a house on fire and having frankly mind-blowing sex.”

Bernie splutters out a laugh and actually blushes, a fact Serena finds beyond hilarious considering their current state of undress. “I’m, uh, I’m glad,” she finally manages. She wraps an arm around Serena, squeezes, and then slips away from her, stretches languidly when she gets out of bed – Serena watches the shift of her muscles, deeply appreciative, and then Bernie asks, “More wine?”

Serena’s in love. As if she hadn’t figured it out already.


End file.
